Classic Poem

Up from a gray ice-floe
On the sea lying,
White clouds of sea-gulls go
Screaming and flying.

Broad pinions two and two
Over the ocean,
Swift winging through the blue
With eager motion, —

Glorious wings in flight!
Whither art speeding?
Heaven-born forms of light!
Where art thou leading?

Tell me, O wild white bird
O'er the sea fleeting,
What means that brave sound heard
In thy wings beating?

Is it a plaintive soul
Lost, yet surviving? ...
Where is the boreal goal
Of all thy striving?

Art thou a form divine, —
Beauty, and Power?
Or a mere dream of mine,
Fled in an hour?