WEARY is the flesh, alas! with many books the eyes are dim. Flight! I feel that birds are wild to sweep the far-off skies, and skim The unknown foam! For nought on land shall now the gypsy heart be stayed, Not ancient gardens mirrored back by limpid eyes, since it doth wade Into the sea-borne flood. O nights! not the clear lamplight's lonely tryst, Nor white allure of sheets unscrawled, nor yet the suckling infant kist By the young wife. I must away! The steamer rocks her ropes and spars! O haul the heavy anchor up and set all sail for tropic stars! Now weariness at last outworn by ruthless hope's unsparing whip Still strains toward white handkerchiefs that wave their farewells from the ship. Nay, but these masts that brave the storm, may they not bend above the foam Like wind-broke spars on derelicts that mastless drift far, far from home Or happy haven-isles that flow with wine and oil that never fails? ... But hearken, O my heart, the singing mariners that hoist the sails! |