A constant requiem pours. Above—beyond—
No glimmering light is seen! No cheerful sound
Steals from the distance. Not a lonely star
Gleams from the dim, mysterious depths afar,
To win the eye, and, like a spirit chart,
To chase the sadness from the sea-boy’s heart.
His craft is small and frail—the waves are high—
And fresh and chill the wild breeze whistles by!
On, madly, blindly, rushes his slight sail,
An arrow winged before the maddened gale.