Grey drizzling mists the moorlands drape,
Rain whitens the dead sea,
From headland dim to sullen cape
Gray sails creep wearily.
I know not how that merchantman
Has found the heart ; but ’t is her plan
Seaward her endless course to shape.

Unreal as insects that appall
A drunkard’s peevish brain,
O’er the gray deep the dories crawl,
Four-legged, with rowers twain :
Midgets and minims of the earth,
Across old ocean’s vasty girth
Toiling — heroic, comical !

I wonder how that merchant’s crew
Have ever found the will !
I wonder what the fishes do
To keep them toiling still !
I wonder how the heart of man
Has patience to live out its span,
Or wait until its dreams come true.