Poetry Archives

My boat is on the bounding tide,
  Away, away from surge and shore;
A waif upon the wave I ride,
  Without a rudder or an oar.

Blow as ye list, ye breezes, blow—
  The compass now is nought to me;
Flow as ye will, ye billows, flow,
  If but ye bear me out to sea.

Yon waving line of dusky blue,
  Where care and toil oppress the heart—
To thee I bid a long adieu,
  And smile to feel that thus we part.

There let the sweating ploughman toil,
  The yearning miser count his gain,
The fevered scholar waste his oil,
  But I am bounding o’er the main!

How fresh these breezes to the brow—
  How dear this freedom to the soul;
Bright ocean, I am with thee now,
  So let thy golden billows roll!

       *       *       *       *       *

But stay—what means this throbbing brain—
  This heaving chest—these pulses quick?
Oh, take me to the land again,
  For I am very, very sick!