Classic Poem

The swift winds run
Under the sun
And under the silver moon,—
They have taken away my little one—
May they bring him back to me soon!

Ye winds, I trow
I care not now
Though the sun hath tann'd him black,
He is still my little one tho' his brow
Be fierce as the wild sea-wrack;

Tho' his eyes be cold
As the sea-caves old,
Tho' his beard be dank wi' foam,
Tho' he be waywarder twenty-fold,
Blow my little one home!

O loud laugh'd he,
As he went from me
To follow the Storms out there,—
My boy that I rock'd upon my knee
And nurst with a widow's prayer.

He would not stay,
And he sail'd away
To toss on the angry Sea,
And when he return'd after many a day
A tall grim man was he!

But evermore
When he came on shore,
Despite his wayward will.
The world grew bright and the angry roar
Of the sleepless Seas was still!

Again in my breast
Right glad and blest
The mother's milk was stirred,—
My heart grew glad as the seas at rest
At a loving look or word.

Run, winds, run
Under the sun
And under the silver moon.—
Follow the ship of my little one,
And hasten it homeward soon!

There is nought for me
On the land or sea,
Or even in Heaven up there,
But the boy I rock'd upon my knee
And nurst with a widow's prayer!

Ye Winds, that be
As wayward as he,
As restless and fierce and bold,
Find him, and blow him again to me,
Now I am weary and old!

Be he far or near,
Let him shoreward steer,—
After him, swift winds, fly!
Come back together, that I may hear
Your voices mingle, and die!