“AS THE CROW FLIES”

Buccaneer with blackest sails, Steering home by compass true, Now that all the rich West pales From its ingot-hue! Would that compass in thy breast Thou couldst lend, for guiding me Where my Hope hath made her nest— In how far a tree! Swerving not, nor stooping low, To that dear, that distant mark Could I undiverted go, What were coming dark? —Careless of the twilight ground, O’er the wood and o’er the stream Still he sails, with hollow sound Strange, as in a dream!