Classic Poem

From what storm-driven seas
To this at last,
This harbour of long peace,
Thy course thou hast —
Above what anchor thus,
Secure and unafraid,
Constant and luminous,
Thy lamps rebuke the shade —
And, oh, if my stout craft
May ever steadfast be,
And send such golden shaft
Far inland as to sea —
I know not this, nor how
Mine own shall ever land:
The spume flies at my prow,
The tiller burns my hand!

Wast beaten round The Horn —
Didst know strange, starless calms,
Nor through the fogs at morn
Hail'dst any isle of palms?
This on its perilous cruise
My little barque hath known,
But, as we mariners use,
Not chartless was she blown.
I guess that from the first
Her beams were meant to bend,
And they must brave or burst
Before the voyage-end;
I guess her bowing mast
Is of the seasoned pine,
That she may scorn what blast
Shall pound her through the brine —
That she was built to blow
Near many shoals, before,
She makes the port where flow
The even tides of shore.

So that, from stormy flight
Safe in her port like thee,
She may as sure a light
Shed over land and sea;
And, knowing well the waste,
And how the dark is grim,
With lanterns lofty-placed
She shall be never dim!