 | Selected Poems from The Atlantic Monthly |  |
685
HAPPINESS.
WING-FOOTED! thou abid'st with him
That asks it not: but he who hath
Watched o'er the waves thy fading path
Will never more on ocean's rim,
At morn or eve, behold returning
Thy high-heaped canvas shoreward yearning:
Thou only teachest us the core
And inmost meaning of No More,
Thou, who first showest us thy face
Turned o'er the shoulder's parting grace,
And whose sad footprints we can trace
Away from every mortal door!
That asks it not: but he who hath
Watched o'er the waves thy fading path
Will never more on ocean's rim,
At morn or eve, behold returning
Thy high-heaped canvas shoreward yearning:
Thou only teachest us the core
And inmost meaning of No More,
Thou, who first showest us thy face
Turned o'er the shoulder's parting grace,
And whose sad footprints we can trace
Away from every mortal door!
| Selected Poems from The Atlantic Monthly | |