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Poem	There is never a wind to sing o'er the sea On its dimpled bosom that holdeth in fee Wealth of silver and magicry; And the harbor is like to an ebon cup With mother-o'-pearl to the lips lined up, And brimmed with the wine of entranced delight, Purple and rare, from the flagon of night. Lo, in the east is a glamor and gleam, Like waves that lap on the shores of dream, Or voice their lure in a poet's theme! And behind the curtseying fisher boats The barge of the rising moon upfloats, The pilot ship over unknown seas Of treasure-laden cloud argosies. Ere ever she drifts from the ocean's rim, Out from the background of shadows dim, Stealeth a boat o'er her golden rim; Noiselessly, swiftly, it swayeth by Into the bourne of enchanted sky, Like a fairy shallop that seeks the strand Of a far and uncharted fairyland. Now, ere the sleeping winds may stir, Send, O, my heart, a wish with her, Like to a venturous mariner; For who knoweth but that on an elfin sea She may meet the bark that is sailing to thee, And, winging thy message across the foam, May hasten the hour when thy ship comes home?
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