Bon Voyage

[TO O. R.]


Out from the Land of the Future, into the Land of the Past
A comrade sails to the East, the sport of the wave and the blast.
Oh, billow and breeze, be kind, and temper your strength to your guest,
Kind for the sake of the friend, - for the sake of the hands he pressed.

Oh, tenderest billow and breeze, welcome him even as we
Would welcome if you were the friend and we were the wind and the sea!
Welcome, protect him, and waft him westward and homeward at last
Into the Land of the Future, out from the Land of the Past!

Arthur Macy

Arthur Macy was an American poet known for his contributions during the 19th century. Born on June 6, 1842, he became widely recognized for his poignant and evocative verses, which often reflected themes of nature and human emotion. His poetry gained considerable respect and admiration during his lifetime. He passed away on June 1, 1904.

Arthur Macy

The Book Hunter

Arthur Macy, Simple Poetry

Valentines From An Uncertain Marksman

Arthur Macy, Simple Poetry

The Criminal

Arthur Macy, Simple Poetry

The Gurgling Imps

Arthur Macy, Simple Poetry

English

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Hail! voyagers, hail!
Whence e'er ye come, where'er ye rove,
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The Indifferent Mariner

I'm a tough old salt, and it's never I care
    A penny which way the wind is,
Or whether I sight Cape Finisterre,
    Or make a port at the Indies.

Some folks steer for a port to trade,
    And some steer north for the whaling;
Yet never I care a damn just where
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You never can stop the wind when it blows,
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Then why, oh, why, go a-piping of your eye
    When there's no sort o' use in complaining?

My face is browned and my lungs are sound,
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I've a little brown jug I sometimes hug,
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Arthur Macy

From East To West.

The boat cast loose her moorings;
"Good-by" was all we said.
"Good-by, Old World," we said with a smile,
And never looked back as we sped,
A shining wake of foam behind,
To the heart of the sunset red.

Heavily drove our plunging keel
The warring waves between;
Heavily strove we night and day,
Against the west-wind keen,
Bent, like a foe, to bar our path,--
A foe with an awful mien.

Never a token met our eyes
From the dear land far away;
No storm-swept bird, no drifting branch,
To tell us where it lay.
Wearily searched we, hour by hour,
Through the mist and the driving spray,

Till, all in a flashing moment,
The fog-veils rent and flew,
And a blithesome south-wind caught the sails
And whistled the cordage through,
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"Cras ingens iterabimus aequor."

Wind of the dead men's feet,
Blow down the empty street
Of this old city by the sea
With news for me!

Blow me beyond the grime
And pestilence of time!
I am too sick at heart to war
With failure any more.

Thy chill is in my bones;
The moonlight on the stones
Is pale, and palpable, and cold;
I am as one grown old.

I call from room to room
Through the deserted gloom;
The echoes are all words I know,
Lost in some long ago.

I prowl from door to door,
And find no comrade more.
The wolfish fear that children feel
Is snuffing at my heel.

I hear the hollow sound
Of a great ship coming round,
The thunder of tackle and the tread
Of sailors overhead.

Tha...

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Now Finale To The Shore

Now finale to the shore!
Now, land and life, finale, and farewell!
Now Voyager depart! (much, much for thee is yet in store;)
Often enough hast thou adventur'd o'er the seas,
Cautiously cruising, studying the charts,
Duly again to port, and hawser's tie, returning:
But now obey, thy cherish'd, secret wish,
Embrace thy friends - leave all in order;
To port, and hawser's tie, no more returning,
Depart upon thy endless cruise, old Sailor!

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A Voyage

1909

Breathing the stale and stuffy air
Of office or consulting room,
Our thoughts will wander back to where
We heard the low Atlantic boom,

And, creaming underneath our screw,
We watched the swirling waters break,
Silver filagrees on blue
Spreading fan-wise in our wake.

Cribbed within the city's fold,
Fettered to our daily round,
We'll conjure up the haze of gold
Which ringed the wide horizon round.

And still we'll break the sordid day
By fleeting visions far and fair,
The silver shield of Vigo Bay,
The long brown cliff of Finisterre.

Where once the Roman galley sped,
Or Moorish corsair spread his sail,
By wooded shore, or sunlit head,
By barren hill or sea-washed vale

We took our way. But we can sw...

Arthur Conan Doyle