THE breeze inscribes with ring on ring The grizzled oily seas of Spring; Around the headland, gray and pale, Comes, like a ghost, a gliding sail. Through brooding tides I see her come Where once I rowed, where once I swum; Ah! then that weltering water's hue Was rainbow-purple, peacock-blue. She veers and fades; she dies away In gulfs of universal gray; And of my boyhood and its boast She seems the melancholy ghost. |