The wave remembers not, till reed by reed
The lyric shores of youth lie ruinous;
It was not much I asked in those old days;—
As waters come whence reeds may never see,
So men have wider missions than we know.
’Tis not thro’ all their moods they hunger for
Our poor pale faces; as a flame at sea
They seek us in the gloom, and then forget.
’Tis when by dusk the battle-sweat has dried;
’Tis when the port is won, and wind and storm