Classic Poem

Tho ', moored along the quiet quay on some
Errand of commerce bent, she rides at rest,
Her title, half-obliterate at the crest,
Speaks the soft language of a distanThome.
Her time shall be, and she invite the foam
About her prow, the winds to blow the West
Open, — and all her hopes move forward, blest
And favoured 'neath the Heaven's unclouded dome
So whilst this life of duties we discharge,
Chained to the moorings of a mortal thought,
The inspiring evening calls us from the marge.
Hail, star and wind and current! Sunset, hail!
Away, for firmly here the helm is caught,
And the new moon hangs in the homeward sail.