Classic Poem

Yes, billow after billow: see they come
Faster and rougher as her little boat
Nears evermore the haven. Oftentimes
It seems to sink and fall adown the wave,
As if borne backward by the struggling tide;
Yet mounting billow after billow, wave
On wave o'er-riding, tempest-tost and shatter'd,
Still, still it nears the haven evermore.
" Poor mariner, art thou not sadly weary? "
Dear brother, rest is sweeter after toil.
" Grows not thine eye confused and dim with sight
Of nothing but the wintry waters? " True,
But then my pole-star, constant and serene,
Above the changing waters changes not.
" But what if clouds, as often, veil the sky? "
Oh, then an unseen hand hath ever ta'en
The rudder from my feeble hands the while —
And I cling to it. " Answer me once more,
Mariner, what think'st thou when the waters bear
Thy frail boat backward from the long'd-for harbour? "
Oh, brother, though innumerable waves
Still seem to rise betwixt me and my home —
Still billow after billow, wave on wave —
I know that they are number'd; not one less
Should bear me homeward if I had my will;
For One who knows what tempests are to weather,
O'er whom there broke the wildest billows once,
He bids these waters swell. In His good time
The last rough wave shall bear me on its bosom
Into the haven of eternal peace.
No billows after: they are number'd brother.
" Oh, gentle mariner, steer on, steer on;
My tears shall flow for thee, but they are tears
In which faith strives with grief, and overcomes. "