Fiords of the far west shore, where peaks sublime
Are cloudward thrust 'neath folds of glistening snow
With hoar and frigid streams that tideward flow,
Sculpturing their cliffs and crags which mount and climb
Full in the sight of Heaven -- grim heirs of Time,
Stern children of Eternity,that grow
Austere and terrible 'mid storms that blow
Their lusty trumpets in the tempest's prime.
What joy is this to float upon thy tide,
So blue, so beautiful -- to gently glid
'Mid islets forested, past shores that stand,
Dark Portals opening to enchantment's land,
Where all is but a dream, soon, soon to be
Lost in the purple mist of memory.