A SOLITARY sail that rises White in the blue mist on the foam, -- What is it in far lands it prizes? What does it leave behind at home? Whistles the wind, the waves are playing, The labouring masthead groans and creaks. Ah, not from pleasure is it straying, It is not pleasure that it seeks. Beneath, the azure current floweth; Above, the golden sunlight glows. Rebellious, the storms it wooeth, As if the storms could give repose. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...AFTER THE RAIN by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH GARDEN FANCIES: 1. THE FLOWER'S NAME by ROBERT BROWNING GROWING GRAY by HENRY AUSTIN DOBSON THE SABBATH MORNING by JOHN LEYDEN WHEN SHE COMES HOME by JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY ASTROPHEL AND STELLA: 32 by PHILIP SIDNEY BUILDING BLOCKS by VIRGINIA A. ALLIN |