A solitary sail that rises
White in the blue mist on the foam-
What is it in far lands it prizes?
What does it leave behind at home?
Whistles the wind, the waves are playing;
The laboring masthead groans and creaks.
Ah, not from pleasure is it straying;
It is not pleasure that it seeks.
Beneath, the azure current floweth;
Above, the golden sunlight glows.
Rebellious, the storms it wooeth;
As if the storms could give repose.