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Robert Laurence Binyon - Miyajima
Work rating: Low

All paths lead upward to the sky
 In this green isle, which mounts on high
 Through slumbrous valleys, veiled in light
 From waters dancing blue and bright.

 And on those leafy paths appear
 Delicately stepping deer
 That move in wild and silent grace,
 The very spirits of the place.

 Whether by old pine--roots they stand
 Or print small hoof--marks on sea--sand,
 Their liquid eyes, their gentle tread,
 Are innocent of human dread.

 Beneath the ancient boughs they seem
 Strayed from the memory or the dream
 Or hope of man, the Golden Age,
 His unrecovered heritage.

 This sacred isle has banished death;
 And yet I would that my last breath
 Might amid ocean--murmur cease
 On such an isle, in such a peace.
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