 | The Autumn Garden |  |
49
Ships on the Sea
Far down the dim horizon of my soul
White are the sails of friends beloved and lost;
Great ships that in mid-sea my pinnace crost,
That hailed it cheerly o'er the long waves' roll.
White are the sails of friends beloved and lost;
Great ships that in mid-sea my pinnace crost,
That hailed it cheerly o'er the long waves' roll.
All, all have reached their harbour and their goal;
I still ride out the storm-wind and the frost;
By futile hopes and wavering passions tost,
I miss their broader sway and strong control.
I still ride out the storm-wind and the frost;
By futile hopes and wavering passions tost,
I miss their broader sway and strong control.
But not in vain beneath their lofty shade
I danced awhile, frail plaything of the seas;
Unfit to brave the ampler main with these;
Yet, by the instinct which their souls obeyed,
Less stedfast, o'er the trackless wave I strayed,
And follow still their vanishing trestle-trees.
I danced awhile, frail plaything of the seas;
Unfit to brave the ampler main with these;
Yet, by the instinct which their souls obeyed,
Less stedfast, o'er the trackless wave I strayed,
And follow still their vanishing trestle-trees.
| The Autumn Garden | |