And far to the fair south‑westward lightens,
⁠Girdled and sandalled and plumed with flowers,
⁠At sunset over the love‑lit lands,
The hill‑side's crown where the wild hill brightens,
⁠Saint Fina's town of the Beautiful Towers,
⁠Hailing the sun with a hundred hands.

Land of us all that have loved thee dearliest,
⁠Mother of men that were lords of man,
⁠Whose name in the world's heart works as a spell,
My last song's light, and the star of mine earliest,
⁠As we turn from thee, sweet, who wast ours for a span,
⁠Fare well we may not who say farewell.