There’s a rolling path of glory for a hundred leagues or more,
With a streak of tumbling shadows breaking through;
O these foaming hills of wonder, where the siren trumpets roar,
While the seraphs are a-singing in the blue!
O the huddle of the waters, O the babble of the brine,
And the swing and tip and dip that sets you free;
With this sad old world behind us, and the top-sail dripping wine,
O the deep true-hearted solace of the sea!
DAWN IN PLYMOUTH HARBOR.
But half awake, the ripples twine,