G. P.—A DEDICATION
He has stood where the surges roar,
And felt the fog on his cheek,
And heard the great bell speak
To the groping ships off-shore;
He who shall never know the feel
Of a ship with the high seas under her keel.
He has felt the nor'east gales
That shatter the howling sky,
And seen the schooners fly
Beneath their cracking sails;
He who can never know the thrill
Of the storm in the rigging, keen and shrill.
He walks a phantom quarter-deck—
Dear dreamer with the sea-rapt eyes—
Good winds, if in your power it lies,
Bring not his shadowy ship to wreck;
He whose crew can never be
More than ghosts from the misty sea.
Frobisher, Magellan, Drake,—
All ye good Captains of the realm,—
From the poop and from the helm
Pause a moment, for his sake,
Bend you on compassionate knees.
He with the soul of one of these,
Fighting a battle that no eye sees.
The book slipped gently from Joan's hand as she looked up at Garth. Sitting above her
