My barque is hastening onward to a bourne
Of summer seas: and soon the boatswain may
Pipe me the signal, at the close of day
Or 'neath the opening eyelids of the morn.
The storm upon my window wakens me:
Upon the clamorous night my spirit peers,
Where leafless boughs and lonely glimmering meers
Reach forward to the fog-enfolded sea.
On such a night as this this hard to tell
Thine heart that on the darkness and the deep
One Hand alone doth guide and guard and keep:
This hard, but it is true—and all is well.
