Gloucester Harbor

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 notWarnings of lips;For their hearts go a-sailing, a-sailing,Out from the wharves and the wailingAfter the ships.

Nothing to them is the goldenCurve of the sands, or the oldenHaunt of the town;Little they reck of the peacefulChiming of bells, or the easefulSport 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 splendidFierce will of the sea.

Beyond them, by ridges and narrowsThe silver prows speed like the arrowsSudden and fair;Like the hoofs of Al Borak the wondrous,Lost in the blue and the thund’rousDepths of the air;

On to the central Atlantic,Where passionate, hurrying, franticElements meet;To the play and the calm and commotionOf the treacherous, glorious ocean,Cruel and sweet.

In the hearts of the children foreverShe 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 lamentationIn starts and in slips;Here always is hope unavailing,Here always the dreamers are sailingAfter the ships!