In the evening — in the sunset — when the long day dies,
Out across the broad Atlantic, where the great seas go,
When the Golden Gates are open and the sunlight flies,
The fairy Islands drift and fade against the crimson glow.
In the evening, when the fiery sun was sinking in the West,
St Brandan and the chosen few went sailing out to sea,—
To the Westward — to the sunset — to the Golden Isle of rest,
The haven of the weary men, the land of Fairie.
Is it only in the sunset we may find the Golden Fleece?
Is it only to the Westward that the Fairyland is found?
And those who went away from us and passed from war to peace —
Are they looking still for Fairyland the wide world round?
Then as I gazed across the dark the morning answer came —
To Eastward stretched the golden sea for many a golden mile;
The far horizon joined the sky in dancing lines of flame —
And drifting on the seas of dawn, I saw St Brandan's Isle.