Wind from the Sea

Weary is the flesh, alas! with many books the eyes are dim.Flight! I feel that birds are wild to sweep the far-off skies, and skimThe unknown foam! For nought on land shall now the gypsy heart be stayed.Not ancient gardens mirrored back by limpid eyes, since it doth wadeInto the sea-borne flood. O nights! not the clear lamplight's lonely tryst,Nor white allure of sheets unscrawled, nor yet the suckling infant kistBy the young wife. I must away! The steamer rocks her ropes and spars!O haul the heavy anchor up and set all sail for tropic stars!Now weariness at last outworn by ruthless hope's unsparing whipStill strains toward white handkerchiefs that wave their farewells from the ship.Nay, but these masts that brave the storm, may they not bend above the foamLike wind-broke spars on derelicts that mastless drift far, far from homeOr happy haven-isles that flow with wine and oil that never fails? ...But hearken, O my heart, the singing mariners that hoist the sails!