Classic Poem

With linen coifs, arms crossed on breast, and dight
In thin percale, or in wool's coarse array,
The kneeling women on the quay survey
The Isle of Batz which looms all foamy white.

Their fathers, husbands, lovers, sons, unite
With Paimpol's, Audierne's, and Cancale's, away
For the far North to sail. How many may,
Of these bold fishers, see no more home's light!

Above the noise of ocean and of shore
The plaintive chant ascends as they implore
The Holy Star—sailor's last hope in ill;

While the Angelus, each face in prayerful wise,
From Roscoff's towers to those of Sybiril,
In the pale, roseate heavens, floats, throbs, and dies.