THE CRY FROM THE SHORE
Come down, ye greyhound mariners,
Unto the wasting shore!
The morning winds are up,—the Gods
Bid me to dream no more.
Come, tell me whither I must sail,
What peril there may be,
Before I take my life in hand
And venture out to sea!
We may not tell thee where to sail,
Nor what the dangers are;
Each sailor soundeth for himself,
Each hath a separate star;
Each sailor soundeth for himself,
And on the awful sea,
What we have learned is ours alone;
We may not tell it thee.
Come back, O ghostly mariners,
Ye who have gone before!
I dread the dark, tempestuous tides;
I dread the farthest shore.
Tell me the secret of the waves;
Say what my fate shall be,—
Quick! for the mighty winds are up,
And will not wait for me.
Hail and farewell, O voyager!
Thyself must read the waves;
What we have learned of sun and storm
Lies with us in our graves;
What we have learned of sun and storm
Is ours alone to know.
The winds are blowing out to sea,
Take up thy life and go!
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