GULLS

When the mist drives past and the wind blows high,

And the harbour lights are dim —

See where they circle, and dip and fly,

The grey free-lances of wind and sky,

To the water's distant rim!

Like spirits possessed of a fierce delight,

A courage that cannot fail,

They face the breakers — they face the night —

The mad storm-horses are silvery white,

They ride through the bitter gale!

They seem like the souls of the long, long lost,

Who breasted the ocean-main —

Vikings whose vessels were tempest-tossed,

Voyagers who sailed, whatever the cost,

And never came home again.

Or stranger and wilder fancy — it seems

As I hear their wind-torn cry,

No birds fly there through the sun's last gleams,

But the wraiths of hopes — the ghosts of dreams

That the old sea-gods saw die.

When the mist drives past and the wind blows high,

And the harbour lights are dim —

See where they circle, and dip and fly,

The grey free-lances of wind and sky,

To the far horizon's rim.