The Russian Review/Volume 1/February 1916/The Sail

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A lone white sail on the horizon
Upon the azure sea doth stand.
What seeks he in this foreign region?
What left he in his native land?

The whistling breeze the mast is bending,
The playful waves around him rise.
Ah! not for happiness he searches,
And not from happiness he flies.

The sun is bright as gold above him,
Light spray below, a snowy fleece;
But he, rebellious, seeks the tempest,
As though the storms could bring him peace!