 | Poems |  |
125
TO MY COMPANIONS.
Ye heavy-hearted Mariners
Who sail this shore,
Ye patient, ye who labor,
Sitting at the sweeping oar,
And see afar the flashing Sea-gulls play,
On the free waters, and the glad bright day,
Twine with his hand the spray,
From out your dreariness,
From your Heart-weariness,
I speak, for I am yours
On these gray shores.
Who sail this shore,
Ye patient, ye who labor,
Sitting at the sweeping oar,
And see afar the flashing Sea-gulls play,
On the free waters, and the glad bright day,
Twine with his hand the spray,
From out your dreariness,
From your Heart-weariness,
I speak, for I am yours
On these gray shores.
In vain,—I know not, Mariners,
What cliffs these are
That high uplift their smooth dark fronts,
And sadly 'round us bar;
I do imagine, that the free clouds play
Above those eminent heights, that somewhere Day
Rides his triumphant way,
Over our stern Oblivion,
But see no path thereout
To free from doubt.
What cliffs these are
126
And sadly 'round us bar;
I do imagine, that the free clouds play
Above those eminent heights, that somewhere Day
Rides his triumphant way,
Over our stern Oblivion,
But see no path thereout
To free from doubt.
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