The fishers are sailing; the fleet is away; The rowlocks are throbbing at break of day. The cables are creaking; the sails are unfurled; The red sun is over the rim of the world. The first summer hour is white on the hill; The sails in the harbour-mouth belly and fill, -- Each boat putting out with the breast of a gull For the mighty great deep that shall rock them and lull. There, there, they all pass out of sight one by one -- Gleam, dazzle, and sink in the path of the sun, -- The last tiny speck to melt out and be free As a roseleaf of cloud on the rim of the sea. |