1

As o'er the vasty deep we sail,
Through sultry calm, or whirling gale,
I dream of hill and bird and tree,
I dream, Emilia dear, of thee,
And aches my heart, and to my eyes
The bitter tears, uncalled, arise.

2

Others have said these things before,
Others will say them evermore;
In every sphere of busy life,
In every age, to work or strife
Man goeth forth o'er land and sea,
And partings such as ours must be.

3

Emilia, dear, beloved one,
Our refuge is in God alone;
When anguish wrings the stricken soul,
And blackness wraps it in its stole,
And almost seems it we must die,
Light — strength — balm come from Him on high.