WHITE is the sail and lonely On the misty infinite blue; Flying from what in the homeland? Seeking for what in the new? The waves romp, and the winds whistle, And the mast leans and creaks; Alas! He flies not from fortune, And no good fortune he seeks. Beneath him the stream, luminous, azure, Above him the sun's golden breast; But he, a rebel, invites the storms, As though in the storms were rest. |