Oh, the wind, the wind,
And the white wake behind;
And the land
Of yellow sand,
Looming like a band
Of gold along the rim;
And the laughter of the sea,
And the sense of mystery,
In the dim
Stretch of lee,
Where the haze
In the blaze
Of heat seems to meet
The sky.
Oh, the happy sails that fly
To the east, to the south,
And the light-house at the mouth
Of the bay

With its gray
Granite spire
Bold against the higher
Lift o' green,
And a smoky tug-boat's trail
Flaunting like a tail
Of stormy cloud,
And a steamer in between
With her paddles whirring round.
Oh, a day upon the Sound,
With the wind, the wind,
Coming out behind,
And the feeling of content
That is lent
To the mind,
When the sailing breeze is fair,
And your only thought or care
Is to keep
The sails asleep,
And run,
Until the sun
Drops in the West—

Then rest is best.