  Across the Island Sound; When every sail that draws aloft Is swollen true and round; When yellow shores along the lee Slope upward to the sky; When opal bright the land and sea In changeful contact lie; When idle yachts at anchor swim Above a phantom shape; When spires of canvas dot the rim Which curves from cape to cape; When sea-weed strewn the ebbing tide Pours eastward to the main; When clumsy coasters side by side Tack in and out again— When such a day is mine to live, |
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