| Before my drift-wood fire I sit, |
| And see, with every waif I burn, |
| Old dreams and fancies coloring it, |
| And folly's unlaid ghosts return. |
| O ships of mine, whose swift keels cleft |
| The enchanted sea on which they sailed, |
| Are these poor fragments only left |
| Of vain desires and hopes that failed? |
| Did I not watch from them the light |
| Of sunset on my towers in Spain, |
| And see, far off, uploom in sight |
| The Fortunate Isles I might not gain? |
| Did sudden lift of fog reveal |
| Arcadia's vales of song and spring, |
| And did I pass, with grazing keel, |
| The rocks whereon the sirens sing? |
| Have I not drifted hard upon |
| The unmapped regions lost to man, |
| The cloud-pitched tents of Prester John, |
| The palace domes of Kubla Khan? |
| Did land winds blow from jasmine flowers, |
| Where Youth the ageless Fountain fills? |
| Did Love make sign from rose blown bowers, |
| And gold from Eldorado's hills? |
| Alas! the gallant ships, that sailed |
| On blind Adventure's errand sent, |
| Howe'er they laid their courses, failed |
| To reach the haven of Content. |
| And of my ventures, those alone |
| Which Love had freighted, safely sped, |
| Seeking a good beyond my own, |
| By clear-eyed Duty piloted. |
| O mariners, hoping still to meet |
| The luck Arabian voyagers met, |
| And find in Bagdad's moonlit street, |
| Haroun al Raschid walking yet, |
| Take with you, on your Sea of Dreams, |
| The fair, fond fancies dear to youth. |
| I turn from all that only seems, |
| And seek the sober grounds of truth. |
| What matter that it is not May, |
| That birds have flown, and trees are bare, |
| That darker grows the shortening day, |
| And colder blows the wintry air! |
| The wrecks of passion and desire, |
| The castles I no more rebuild, |
| May fitly feed my drift-wood fire, |
| And warm the hands that age has chilled. |
| Whatever perished with my ships, |
| I only know the best remains; |
| A song of praise is on my lips |
| For losses which are now my gains. |
| Heap high my hearth! No worth is lost; |
| No wisdom with the folly dies. |
| Burn on, poor shreds, your holocaust |
| Shall be my evening sacrifice! |
| Far more than all I dared to dream, |
| Unsought before my door I see; |
| On wings of fire and steeds of steam |
| The world's great wonders come to me, |
| And holier signs, unmarked before, |
| Of Love to seek and Power to save, - |
| The righting of the wronged and poor, |
| The man evolving from the slave; |
| And life, no longer chance or fate, |
| Safe in the gracious Fatherhood. |
| I fold o'er-wearied hands and wait, |
| In full assurance of the good. |
| And well the waiting time must be, |
| Though brief or long its granted days, |
| If Faith and Hope and Charity |
| Sit by my evening hearth-fire's blaze. |
| And with them, friends whom Heaven has spared, |
| Whose love my heart has comforted, |
| And, sharing all my joys, has shared |
| My tender memories of the dead, - |
| Dear souls who left us lonely here, |
| Bound on their last, long voyage, to whom |
| We, day by day, are drawing near, |
| Where every bark has sailing room. |
| I know the solemn monotone |
| Of waters calling unto me; |
| I know from whence the airs have blown |
| That whisper of the Eternal Sea. |
| As low my fires of drift-wood burn, |
| I hear that sea's deep sounds increase, |
| And, fair in sunset light, discern |
| Its mirage-lifted Isles of Peace. |