  North from the beautiful islands, North from the headlands and highlands, The long sea-wall, The white ships flee with the swallow; The day-beams follow and follow, Glitter and fall. The brown ruddy children that fear not, Lean over the quay, and they hear not Warnings of lips; For their hearts go a-sailing, a-sailing, Out from the wharves and the wailing Nothing to them is the golden Curve of the sands, or the olden Haunt of the town; Little they reck of the peaceful Chiming of bells, or the easeful Sport on the down: The orchards no longer are cherished; The charm of the meadow has perished: Dearer, ay me! The solitude vast, unbefriended, The magical voice and the splendid Fierce will of the sea. Beyond them, by ridges and narrows The silver prows speed like the arrows Sudden and fair; Like the hoofs of Al Borak the wondrous, Lost in the blue and the thund’rous On to the central Atlantic, Where passionate, hurrying, frantic Elements meet; To the play and the calm and commotion Of the treacherous, glorious ocean, Cruel and sweet. In the hearts of the children forever She fashions their growing endeavor, The pitiless sea; Their sires in her caverns she stayeth, The spirits that love her she slayeth, And laughs in her glee. Woe, woe, for the old fascination! The women make deep lamentation In starts and in slips; Here always is hope unavailing, Here always the dreamers are sailing After the ships! |
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