THE CRY FROM THE SHORE

Come down, ye greyhound mariners, Unto the wasting shore! The morning winds are up,—the Gods Bid me to dream no more. Come, tell me whither I must sail, What peril there may be, Before I take my life in hand And venture out to sea! We may not tell thee where to sail, Nor what the dangers are; Each sailor soundeth for himself, Each hath a separate star; Each sailor soundeth for himself, And on the awful sea, What we have learned is ours alone; We may not tell it thee. Come back, O ghostly mariners, Ye who have gone before! I dread the dark, tempestuous tides; I dread the farthest shore. Tell me the secret of the waves; Say what my fate shall be,— Quick! for the mighty winds are up, And will not wait for me. Hail and farewell, O voyager! Thyself must read the waves; What we have learned of sun and storm Lies with us in our graves; What we have learned of sun and storm Is ours alone to know. The winds are blowing out to sea, Take up thy life and go!