Thro' all this perfect summer day
The wind has blown from out the west,
And now the sunset fires invest
Where looms the mainland far away,
The old town right abreast.
The red-brown roofs and rugged spires
Uplift and pierce the sunset fires,
The old town right abreast.
The ships rise up, and sail, and sail,
Then drop beneath the distant rim—
The crimson rim.
We watch their topsails float and trail—
Like bubbles 'round a goblet's brim,
A moment there they rise and dip,
Then break against the sky's red lip.
Unhailed the ships go sailing by

The old town over there;
And yet it seems we hear a cry—
A heart-born cry
Of anguish and despair,
Of hope lost in despair.
In speechful grief the old town stands
And beckons with its outstretched hands
As the ships go sailing by.
Long years ago its port was thronged
With many a busy sail,
With rustling sail.
And many a heart has sighed and longed
For that old town's cheery hail—
Has sighed and longed for that old town's welcome hail.
Oh, where are they who left thy port
In strength of youth, in pride of love?
Side by side with a dark consort,
Calm seas below, blue skies above,
They tacked and stood across the bar:
Only the sea knows where they are—

Only the sea!
Perhaps at night the phantom ships—
Thy lost ships—come sailing in;
Their spectre crews with parted lips
That utter no sound, for the spell of death
Turns even a laugh to a grin.
Do they wait, and list for the din
Of the cheers and the bells to welcome them in—
For the cheers and the bells to welcome them in?
Do their dead hearts know hopes and fears?
Do they dream of the wives they've not seen for years?—
The wives and the sweethearts who watched them thro' tears
Sail away, sail away, when the wind was south
And the bar was blue at the harbor's mouth,
And the gulls flew low like flakes of snow,
And the summer wind bore the heave-yo-ho
Of the sailors brown

Into the town?
Are they here, the ones so dear?
Alas! the lips that their lips have known,
Alas! the hearts that once beat to their own
Are lying up on the hillside there,
And the daisies and grasses have overgrown
Their graves for many a year.
Yon sentinel pine that watches the graves
Where their wives and sweethearts are laid to rest
The wild winter wind defies and outbraves;
Its roots are sunk in some loved one's breast.
Are their souls at rest?
Sometimes, I think, they must wander down here
To watch for the ships that never will come.
In the silence of night they throng the old pier
To welcome the wanderers home;
Their lustreless eyes—
Enough of death and ghostly tales!
Oh, let the old town keep its vigil there,
Watching for those who were!

What though the dark ship with us sails—
Ah, fools, to freight our hearts with care!
To waste our breath in idle hails,
To cringe and cry.
We live for those who are, not were!—

We live to live, not die!