The sea was sapphire coloured, and the sky

Burned like a heated opal through the air;

We hoisted sail; the wind was blowing fair

For the blue lands that to the eastward lie.

From the steep prow I marked with quickening eye,

Zakynthos, every olive oil and creek,

Ithaca’s cliff, Lycaon’s snowy peak,

And all the flower-strewn hills of Arcady.

The flapping of the sail against the mast,

The ripple of the girls’ laughter at the stern,

The only sounds; when ‘gan the West to burn,

And a red sun upon the seas to ride,

I stood upon the soil of Greece at last!