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The Wanderers

 OVER the sea our galleys went, 
With cleaving prows in order brave 
To a speeding wind and a bounding wave-- 
 A gallant armament: 
Each bark built out of a forest-tree 
 Left leafy and rough as first it grew, 
And nail'd all over the gaping sides, 
Within and without, with black bull-hides, 
Seethed in fat and suppled in flame, 
To bear the playful billows' game; 
So, each good ship was rude to see, 
Rude and bare to the outward view.
But each upbore a stately tent Where cedar pales in scented row Kept out the flakes of the dancing brine, And an awning droop'd the mast below, In fold on fold of the purple fine, That neither noontide nor star-shine Nor moonlight cold which maketh mad, Might pierce the regal tenement.
When the sun dawn'd, O, gay and glad We set the sail and plied the oar; But when the night-wind blew like breath, For joy of one day's voyage more, We sang together on the wide sea, Like men at peace on a peaceful shore; Each sail was loosed to the wind so free, Each helm made sure by the twilight star, And in a sleep as calm as death, We, the voyagers from afar, Lay stretch'd along, each weary crew In a circle round its wondrous tent Whence gleam'd soft light and curl'd rich scent, And with light and perfume, music too: So the stars wheel'd round, and the darkness past, And at morn we started beside the mast, And still each ship was sailing fast! Now, one morn, land appear'd--a speck Dim trembling betwixt sea and sky-- 'Avoid it,' cried our pilot, 'check The shout, restrain the eager eye!' But the heaving sea was black behind For many a night and many a day, And land, though but a rock, drew nigh; So we broke the cedar pales away, Let the purple awning flap in the wind, And a statue bright was on every deck! We shouted, every man of us, And steer'd right into the harbour thus, With pomp and paean glorious.
A hundred shapes of lucid stone! All day we built its shrine for each, A shrine of rock for ever one, Nor paused till in the westering sun We sat together on the beach To sing because our task was done; When lo! what shouts and merry songs! What laughter all the distance stirs! A loaded raft with happy throngs Of gentle islanders! 'Our isles are just at hand,' they cried, 'Like cloudlets faint in even sleeping; Our temple-gates are open'd wide, Our olive-groves thick shade are keeping For these majestic forms'--they cried.
O, then we awoke with sudden start From our deep dream, and knew, too late, How bare the rock, how desolate, Which had received our precious freight: Yet we call'd out--'Depart! Our gifts, once given, must here abide: Our work is done; we have no heart To mar our work,'--we cried.

Poem by Robert Browning
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Book: Shattered Sighs