And many blue-eyed violets beam
Along the edges of the stream,
I hear a voice that seems to say,
Now near at hand, now far away,
“Witchery—witchery—witchery.”
—Van Dyke.
Oh, the throb of the screw and the beat of the screw
And the swinging of the ship as she finds the sea.
Oh, the haze of the land as it sinks from view,