That isle is now all desolate and bare,

Its dwellings down, its tenants passed away;

None but her own and Father's grave is there,

And nothing outward tells of human clay;

Ye could not know where lies a thing so fair,

No stone is there to show, no tongue to say,

What was; no dirge, except the hollow sea's,[EA]Mourns o'er the beauty of the Cyclades.