Are swinging and slanting their prows to the ocean, panting
To lift their wings to the wide wild air,
And venture a voyage they know not where,--
To fly away and be free!

The tide runs out of the harbour,--
The low tide, the slow tide, the ebb o' the moonlit bay,--
And the little ships rocking at anchor,
Are rounding and turning their bows to the landward, yearning
To breathe the breath of the sun-warmed strand,
To rest in the lee of the high hill land,--
To hold their haven and stay!

My heart goes round with the vessels,--
My wild heart, my child heart, in love with the sea and the land,--
And the turn o' the tide passes through it,
In rising and falling with mystical currents, calling
At morn, to range where the far waves foam,
At night, to a harbour in love's true home,
With the hearts that understand!

Seal Harbour, August 12, 1911.




SIERRA MADRE

O mother mountains! billowing far to the snowlands,
Robed in aerial amethyst, silver, and blue,