Poetry Archives

At morn his bark like a bird
Slips lightly oceanward—
Sail feathering smooth o’er the bay
And beak that drinks the wild spray.
In his eyes beams cheerily
A light like the sun’s on the sea,
As he watches the waning strand,
Where the foam, like a waving hand
Of one who mutely would tell
Her love, flutters faintly, “Farewell.”

But at night, when the winds arise
And pipe to driving skies,
And the moon peers, half afraid,
Through the storm-cloud’s ragged shade,
He hears her voice in the blast
That sighs about the mast,
He sees her face in the clouds
As he climbs the whistling shrouds;
And a power nerves his hand,
Shall bring the bark to land.