Classic Poem

Ye heavy-hearted Mariners
Who sail this shore,
Ye patient, ye who labor,
Sitting at the sweeping oar,
And see afar the flashing Sea-gulls play,
On the free waters, and the glad bright day,
Twine with his hand the spray,
From out your dreariness,
From your Heart-weariness,
I speak, for I am yours
On these gray shores.

In vain,—I know not, Mariners,
What cliffs these are
That high uplift their smooth dark fronts,
And sadly 'round us bar;
I do imagine, that the free clouds play
Above those eminent heights, that somewhere Day
Rides his triumphant way,
Over our stern Oblivion,
But see no path thereout
To free from doubt.