Classic Poem

Seven days we sought the horizon line, elate,
Without a sea-born doubt of things to come,
Then on the eighth, upon the sill of home,
A fog, not of the sea, fell with a weight
Upon our spirits. Where was noon's rich freight
Of summer cheer, the darkness spoke of doom,
Till thoughts familiar did such dole assume
We could but cling before the coming fate.

In port—what greeting? From belovèd lips
The same “All 's well!” that could not charm our woe
Chanted an ocean litany against harm;
Our happiness swung forth from fear's eclipse.
Alas! upon a fearless friend the blow
Fell like first lightning from long-gathered storm.