To Cyprus
I know an isle, to Love the long-lost home,
the sea's white waves, the sun's hot rays caress.
Necessity, that most cruel fate of all,
has banished Love, yet may not quite suppress
the present fragrance of a sacred past.
On Trodos, pines still keep their sweet incense.
The while it lasts, no honeymoon can end.
Oh do not mark the boot-prints in the sand,
but hope that Love shall one day conquer all.
Even the sea, long shines the patient sun.
What mars when Love, long absent, claims her own?
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