On the Prow

Strange, silent East! Across the solemn calmThe slender ship outward and onward strives,Bearing to odorous shores of date and palmThe burden of a hundred little lives.

On a like course drift I toward the vergeBeyond which lies what now I may not know;Yet my heart whispers these gray wastes of surgeStretch whither it is good for me to go.

Youth, like the speeding sun, left far behind—Unanswered questions mutely sent before—Oh, great, dim East, what welcome shall I findWhen thy wide arms unveil the distant shore?

The prow knows not the harbor that it nears,Nor I if thou shalt bring the seeker rest:—Yet the strong hand the fragile ship that steersWill guide her to the haven that is best!