The Dreamer

He lounges on the wharf and whittles pegs While his pathetic gaze drifts out to sea, Around him fishnets, anchors, empty kegs And coils of rope are stored. His revery Though deep, is sometimes broken by a sigh As strange lights kindle in his faded eye. A shapeless hat seems floating on his hair Of wavy white. His clothes are patched and worn His fingers palsy shaken, and an air Of pathos and of helplessness forlorn Enfolds him, as he lays his pipe aside And gazes sadly at the ebbing tide. His vision seems athirst to drink its fill Of ocean’s mystery that he loves so well, For he has lived adventure, lives it still, Though age, long since, has yielded to the spell Of brooding calm. No idle dreamer he, His thoughts are busied on some far off sea. Stern old Magellan and Sir Francis Drake Heard tales from just such ancient sailor men, Tales that inspired a zeal to undertake Those stirring voyages beyond the ken Of their small world. Discoverers bold, - and yet They steered the course some unknown dreamer set!