He built of his dawn-bright dreaming
A pennoned vessel free,
In which to sail o'er the gleaming
Expanse of the mighty sea.

He built with eager endeavor,
For murmuring waves on the strand
Kept whispering to him ever
Strange tales of a far-off land.

A mist-glimmer oft suggested
A palm-bordered island dim,
A sound as of spirits that feasted
Was borne from the west to him.

But when he would fain be faring
A-sway on the rhythmic surge,
He suddenly saw a glaring
White flash from the heavens emerge;

Saw clouds like a line of battle
To south and to east, he caught
The voice of the storm's loud rattle
With din as of weapons fraught;

He saw dark squadrons of men on
The march at the thunder's beat
To fling down his pretty pennon
And trample it under their feet.

But the hour claimed his devotion;
Though heavy his heart, he gave
His little ship to the ocean
To speed before wind and wave.

He went to the fight, which wavered
All day mid the surf's mad throes;
The hero it sometimes favored,
Then favored in turn his foes.

When the sun from the sky hath hasted,
He stands by the sea once more,
His strand by the storm is wasted,
His wounds are bleeding sore.

The sky is darkening o'er him,
The black waves come and go,
They leave on the sands before him
Here and there a shred or so.

Of his dawn-bright youthful dreaming,
Of his little wave-shattered ship,
Which should have sailed o'er the gleaming
Blue deep on its maiden trip.