A SOLITARY sail that rises White in the blue mist on the foam, -- What is it in far lands it prizes? What does it leave behind at home? Whistles the wind, the waves are playing, The labouring masthead groans and creaks. Ah, not from pleasure is it straying, It is not pleasure that it seeks. Beneath, the azure current floweth; Above, the golden sunlight glows. Rebellious, the storms it wooeth, As if the storms could give repose. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...AND WHAT SHALL YOU SAY? by JOSEPH SEAMON COTTER JR. THE QUILTING by PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR INSCRIPTIONS: 4 by MARK AKENSIDE PORTRAIT SONNETS: 1 by HENRY BELLAMANN THE TRAMPS by ROBERT SEYMOUR BRIDGES |