White gleams the lone sail far from shore
In purple mists and boundless wind;
What seeketh she in lands before?
What has she left in homes behind?

The foam is thrown about her prow,
Her bending mast is beat with spray;
But ah, no hope she seeketh now,
And from no hope she rides away.

Beneath, blue streams of ocean lea;
Above, blue day in east and west—
But for the wild storm yearneth she,
As if amid the storm were rest.