The Voyage
Glitters a white, a lonely sail,
Where stoops the grey mist o’er the sea.
What does his distant search avail?
At home, unfound, what leaveth he?
Whistles the wind; the waves at play
Sport round the bending, creaking mast;
Ah! not for Fortune does he stray,
Nor yet from Fortune flees he fast.
’Neath him, like sapphire, gleams the sea;
O’er him, like gold, the sunlight glows;
But storms, rebellious, wooeth he,
As if in storms he’d find repose.