Leagues of blue ocean are between us spread;
And I cannot behold thee, save in dreams!
I cannot hear the music round thee shed,
I do not see the light that from thee gleams.
Fairest and best! 'mid summer joys, ah, say,
Dost thou e'er think of one, who thinks of thee---
Th' Atlantic-wanderer---who, day by day,
Looks for thy image in the deep, deep sea?
Long months, and years perchance, may pass away,
Ere he shall gaze upon thy face again;
He cannot know what rocks and quicksands lay
Before him, on the Future's shipless main;
But, thanked be Memory! there are treasures still,
Which the triumphant mind holds subject to its will.