ATALANTA.

Wait not along the shore, they will not come;

The suns go down beyond the windy seas,

Those weary sails shall never wing them home

O’ er this white foam;

No voice from these

On any landward wind that dies among the trees.

Gone south, it may be, rudderless, astray,

Gone where the winds and ocean currents bore,

Out of all tracks along the sea’ s highway

This many a day,

To some far shore

Where never wild seas break, or any fierce winds roar.

For there are lands ye never recked of yet

Between the blue of stormless sea and sky,

Beyond where any suns of yours have set,

Or these waves fret;

And loud winds die

In cloudless summertide, where those far islands lie.

They will not come! for on the coral shore

The good ship lies, by little waves caressed,

All stormy ways and wanderings are o’ er,

No more, no more!

But long sweet rest,

In cool green meadow-lands, that lie along the West.

Or if beneath far fathom depths of waves

She lies heeled over by the slow tide’ s sweep,

Deep down where never any swift sea raves,

Through ocean caves,

A dreaming deep

Of softly gliding forms, a glimmering world of sleep.

Then have they passed beyond the outer gate

Through death to knowledge of all things, and so

From out the silence of their unkown fate

They bid us wait,

Who only know

That twixt their loves and ours the great seas ebb and flow.