Poetry Archives

My soul is sailing through the sea,
But the Past is heavy and hindereth me.
The Past hath crusted cumbrous shells
That hold the flesh of cold sea-mells
   About my soul.
The huge waves wash, the high waves roll,
Each barnacle clingeth and worketh dole
   And hindereth me from sailing!

Old Past let go, and drop i’ the sea
Till fathomless waters cover thee!
For I am living but thou art dead;
Thou drawest back, I strive ahead
   The Day to find.
Thy shells unbind!  Night comes behind,
I needs must hurry with the wind
   And trim me best for sailing.


Macon, Georgia, 1867.