 | Poems by Julia C. R. Dorr |  |
316
TREASURE-SHIPS
O beautiful, stately ships,
Ye come from over the seas,
With every sail full spread
To the glad, rejoicing breeze!
Ye come from the dusky East,
Ye come from the golden West,
As birds that out of the far blue sky
Fly each to its sheltered nest.
Ye come from over the seas,
With every sail full spread
To the glad, rejoicing breeze!
Ye come from the dusky East,
Ye come from the golden West,
As birds that out of the far blue sky
Fly each to its sheltered nest.
All spoils of the earth ye bring;
From the isles of far Cathay,
From the fabled shores of the Orient,
The realms of eternal day.
The prisoned light of a thousand gems,
The gleam of the virgin gold,
Lustre of silver, and sheen of pearl,
Shut up in the narrow hold.
From the isles of far Cathay,
From the fabled shores of the Orient,
The realms of eternal day.
The prisoned light of a thousand gems,
The gleam of the virgin gold,
Lustre of silver, and sheen of pearl,
Shut up in the narrow hold.
Shawls from the looms of Ispahan;
Ivory white as milk;
Shimmer of satin and rare brocade,
And fold upon fold of silk;
Gauzes that India's maidens wear;
Spices, and rare perfumes;
Fruits that hold in their honeyed cups
The wealth of the summer blooms.
Ivory white as milk;
Shimmer of satin and rare brocade,
And fold upon fold of silk;
Gauzes that India's maidens wear;
Spices, and rare perfumes;
Fruits that hold in their honeyed cups
The wealth of the summer blooms.
317
The blood of a thousand vines;
The cotton's drifted snow;
The fragrant heart of the precious woods
That deep in the tropics grow;
The strength of the giant hills;
The might of the iron ore;
The golden corn, and the yellow wheat
From earth's broad threshing-floor.
The cotton's drifted snow;
The fragrant heart of the precious woods
That deep in the tropics grow;
The strength of the giant hills;
The might of the iron ore;
The golden corn, and the yellow wheat
From earth's broad threshing-floor.
Yet, O ye beautiful ships!
There are ships that come not back,
With flying pennant and swelling sail,
Over yon shining track!
Who can reckon their precious stores,
Or measure the might have been?
Who can tell what they held for us—
The ships that will ne'er come in?
There are ships that come not back,
With flying pennant and swelling sail,
Over yon shining track!
Who can reckon their precious stores,
Or measure the might have been?
Who can tell what they held for us—
The ships that will ne'er come in?
| Poems by Julia C. R. Dorr | |