Always the ships that move in mystery, on the dim horizon,

Shadow-filled sails of dreams, sliding over the blue-grey ocean,

Far from the rock-edged shore where willow-green waves are rushing,

And white foam-people leap, to stand erect for the moment.

Ho! ye sails that seem to wander in dream-filled meadows,

Say, is the shore where I stand the only field of struggle,

Or are ye hit and battered out there by waves and wind-gusts

As ye tack over a clashing sea of watery echoes?