To-night our ship is anchored where Sand-silvered is the shore, To find at Havre St. Pierre Black gold of Labrador. The pioneer's first night on land, Unsteady from the seas, Was not more still than this, the sand And stars the same as these. .... This cycle of the selfsame wind, Cooled in far hills of snow, And charged with balsam, makes the mind At one with his of long ago. So little travelled is the street With grasses overgrown, There may be traces of his feet By weed and flower and stone. And all the houses face the sea— Mother of gain and loss— And every heart in piety Is turned toward a cross. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...GO SLEEP, MA HONEY by EDWARD D. BARKER THE BLISSFUL DAY by ROBERT BURNS ITYLUS by ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE ONE'S-SELF I SING by WALT WHITMAN THE WALLABOUT MARTYRS by WALT WHITMAN WHY PLAGUE ME, LOVES? by ASCLEPIADES OF SAMOS HINC LACHRIMAE; OR THE AUTHOR TO AURORA: 33 by WILLIAM BOSWORTH |