DEPARTURE

While the far farewell music thins and fails,

And the broad bottoms rip the bearing brine -

All smalling slowly to the gray sea line -

And each significant red smoke-shaft pales,

Keen sense of severance everywhere prevails,

Which shapes the late long tramp of mounting men

To seeming words that ask and ask again:

“How long, O striving Teutons, Slavs, and Gaels

Must your wroth reasonings trade on lives like these,

That are as puppets in a playing hand? -

When shall the saner softer polities

Whereof we dream, have play in each proud land,

And patriotism, grown Godlike, scorn to stand

Bondslave to realms, but circle earth and seas?”