The Ideal and the Actual

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!