 | Sonnets of the Wingless Hours |  |
71
WAIFS OF A WORLD.
Long ere Columbus in the breeze unfurled
His venturous sail to hunt the setting sun,
Long ere he fired his first exultant gun
Where strange canoes all round his flagship whirled,
His venturous sail to hunt the setting sun,
Long ere he fired his first exultant gun
Where strange canoes all round his flagship whirled,
The unsailed ocean which the west wind curled
Had born strange waifs to Europe, one by one:
Wood carved by Indian hands, and trees like none
Which men then knew, from an untrodden world.
Had born strange waifs to Europe, one by one:
Wood carved by Indian hands, and trees like none
Which men then knew, from an untrodden world.
Oh for a waif from o'er that wider sea
Whose margin is the grave, and where we think
A gem-bepebbled continent may be!
Whose margin is the grave, and where we think
A gem-bepebbled continent may be!
But all in vain we watch upon the brink;
No waif floats up from black infinity,
Where all who venture out for ever sink.
No waif floats up from black infinity,
Where all who venture out for ever sink.
| Sonnets of the Wingless Hours | |