Classic Poem

As one who, for a bark that nevermore
Shall meet her gaze, still looking wearily,
Wanders, in wistful longing, on the shore
Of the vast, desolate sea—

Thus, in vague quest of that she gathers not,
The Soul along Life's margin lingereth—
And, musing on the inevitable lot,
Walks by the waves of Death—

Of that drear flood, whose ne'er-surveyed extent
This our existence ever darkens round—
Amid whose barren waste nor continent
Nor island hath been found!

Yet Hope, Columbus-like, would fondly deem
Far in those gloomy depths a Land may lie,
Of beauty never dreamed in human dream,
Ne'er seen with human eye!

And when her timid feet the chill tide laves,
Voices, nigh lost, come from that far-off Land—
Lost, in the wearying of a thousand waves
Tumultuous on Life's strand.

How fare they—parting souls—that, ferried o'er,
See all the known receding far behind—
And catch, as yet, no glimpse of that dim shore
That waits the eternal Mind?