There's a far, lone island in the dim, red West
Where the sea-waves are crimson
with the red of burnished gold
(Sapphire in the billows, gold upon the crest)
An island that is older than the continents are old
For when in dim Atlantis a thousand j**eled spires
Burned through the twilight in the ocean's dusky smile
And when mystic Lemuria glowed
with myriad gemming fires
Strange ships went sailing to seek the wondrous isle
And when the land of Britain was a forest for the deer
And the mammoth roamed the mountains
and the plains were veiled in snow
When the dawn had swept the ocean
and the air was crystal clear
The ape-man looking sea-ward caught
the distant topaz glow
When Drake went down to Darien
and Cortez sailed the Main
And the wide blue Pacific lay like a summer dream
From the gold-decked bridges of the galleons of Spain
Far upon the skyline they saw the island gleam
It flashes in the Baltic
dimly glimpsed through driving snow
And it lights the Indian Ocean
when the waves are lying still
It dreams along the sea-rim
in the twilight's golden glow
And mariners have named it The Isle of Hy-Brasil
For sailing ships are anchored close
about that ancient isle
Ships that roamed the oceans in the dim dawn days
Coracles from Britain, triremes from the Nile
Anchored round the harbors, mile on countless mile
Ships and ships and shades of ships, fading in the haze
And there's a Roman galley with its seven banks of oars
And there's a golden barge-boat
that knew the Caesar's hand
And there's a sombre pirate craft
with shattered cabin door
And there's a study bireme
that sailed to the Holy Land
Main masts lifting like a forest of the south
Beaked prows looming and the scarlet courses furled
Dim decks heel-marked, warped by rain and drouth
Rift in the cross-trees, drift of the southern seas;
Dim ships, strong ships, from all about the world
High ships, proud ships, towering at their poops
Galleons flaunting their pinnacles of pride
Battleships and merchantmen and long, lean sloops
Flagships floating with the schooners on the tide
And there's a Viking Serpent that sailed the northern seas
That knew the stride of giants, ferocious gods of brawn
And there's a lateened rover that billowed to the breeze
There a ship that sailed from Tyre
when the waves were tinged with fire
And the first skies of history were rosying to the dawn
The Good St. Brandon knew it
when he turned him to the West
When he left the world behind him
as he ventured far away
And his fearless keel went plowing
the ocean's sapphire crest
Till he won unto Hy-Brasil which no other mortal may
For the island is Hy-Brasil, the paradise of ships
Where the dim ghost crafts lie anchored and at rest
Where the sea wind never rages
and the sea rain never drips
There they dream away the days
in the mystic, sapphire haze
About the isle of Hy-Brasil, far off amid the West