“As the Crow Flies.”
Buccaneer with blackest sails,
Steering home by compass true,
Now that all the rich West pales
From its ingot-hue!
Would that compass in thy breast
Thou couldst lend, for guiding me
here my Hope hath made her nest—
In how far a tree!
Swerving not, nor stooping low,
To that dear, that distant mark
Could I undiverted go,
What were coming dark?
—Careless of the twilight ground,
O’er the wood and o’er the stream
Still he sails, with hollow sound
Strange, as in a dream!