Sailor's Song.

The sea goes up; the sky comes down.
Oh, can you spy the ancient town, -
The granite hills so hard and gray,
That rib the land behind the bay?
    O ye ho, boys! Spread her wings!
    Fair winds, boys: send her home!
    O ye ho!

Three years? Is it so long that we
Have lived upon the lonely sea?
Oh, often I thought we'd see the town,
When the sea went up, and the sky came down.
    O ye ho, boys! Spread her wings!
    Fair winds, boys: send her home!
    O ye ho!

Even the winter winds would rouse
A memory of my father's house;
For round his windows and his door
They made the same deep, mouthless roar.
    O ye ho, boys! Spread her wings!
    Fair winds, boys: send her home!
    O ye ho!

And when the summer's breezes beat,
Methought I saw the sunny street
Where stood my Kate. Beneath her hand
She gazed far out, far out from land.
    O ye ho, boys! Spread her wings!
    Fair winds, boys: send her home!
    O ye ho!

Farthest away, I oftenest dreamed
That I was with her. Then, it seemed
A single stride the ocean wide
Had bridged, and brought me to her side.
    O ye ho, boys! Spread her wings!
    Fair winds, boys: send her home.
    O ye ho!

But though so near we're drawing, now,
'T is farther off -    - I know not how.
We sail and sail: we see no home.
Would we into the port were come!
    O ye ho, boys! Spread her wings!
    Fair winds, boys: send her home!
    O ye ho!

At night, the same stars o'er the mast:
The mast sways round - however fast
We fly - still sways and swings around
One scanty circle's starry bound.
    O ye ho, boys! Spread her wings!
    Fair winds, boys: send her home!
    O ye ho!

Ah, many a month those stars have shone,
And many a golden morn has flown,
Since that so solemn, happy morn,
When, I away, my babe was born.
    O ye ho, boys! Spread her wings!
    Fair winds, boys: send her home!
    O ye ho!

And, though so near we're drawing, now,
'T is farther off - I know not how -
I would not aught amiss had come
To babe or mother there, at home!
    O ye ho, boys! Spread her wings!
    Fair winds, boys: send her home!
    O ye ho!

'T is but a seeming: swiftly rush
The seas, beneath. I hear the crush
Of foamy ridges 'gainst the prow.
Longing outspeeds the breeze, I know.
    O ye ho, boys! Spread her wings!
    Fair winds, boys: send her home!
    O ye ho!

Patience, my mates! Though not this eve
We cast our anchor, yet believe,
If but the wind holds, short the run:
We 'll sail in with to-morrow's sun.
    O ye ho, boys! Spread her wings!
    Fair winds, boys: send her home!
    O ye ho!

George Parsons Lathrop

George Parsons Lathrop (August 25, 1851 – April 19, 1898) was an American poet, novelist, and editor. He was closely associated with the literary world of New England and was a prominent figure in the late 19th century. Lathrop was also known for his marriage to Rose Hawthorne, the daughter of famed novelist Nathaniel Hawthorne, and for his efforts in editing and preserving Hawthorne's works. His contributions spanned various literary forms including poetry and prose.

George Parsons Lathrop

Charity

George Parsons Lathrop, Simple Poetry

Jessamine.

George Parsons Lathrop, Simple Poetry

The Child Year

George Parsons Lathrop, Simple Poetry

June Longings.

George Parsons Lathrop, Simple Poetry

English

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Sailor's Song, Returning

The sea goes up; the sky comes down.
Oh, can you spy the ancient town, -
The granite hills so green and gray,
That rib the land behind the bay?
O ye ho, boys. Spread her wings!
Fair winds, boys: send her home!
                O ye ho!

Three years? Is it so long that we
Have lived upon the lonely sea?
Oh, often I thought we'd see the town,
When the sea went up, and the sky came down.
O ye ho, boys. Spread her wings!

Even the winter winds would rouse
A memory of my father's house;
For round his windows and his door
They made the same deep, mouthless roar.
O ye ho, boys. Spread her wings!

And when the summer's breezes beat,
Methought I saw the sunny street
Where stood my Kate. Beneath her hand
She gazed far out, far out from ...

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Gloucester Moors

        A mile behind is Gloucester town
        Where the fishing fleets put in,
        A mile ahead the land dips down
        And the woods and farms begin.
        Here, where the moors stretch free
        In the high blue afternoon,
        Are the marching sun and talking sea,
        And the racing winds that wheel and flee
        On the flying heels of June.

        Jill-o'er-the-ground is purple blue,
        Blue is the quaker-maid,
        The wild geranium holds its dew
        Long in the boulder's shade.
        Wax-red hangs the cup
        From the huckleberry boughs,
        In barberry bells the grey moths sup,
        Or where the choke-cherry lifts high up
        Sweet bowls for their carouse.

        Over the shel...

William Vaughn Moody

The Forsaken Merman

Come, dear children, let us away;
Down and away below!
Now my brothers call from the bay,
Now the great winds shoreward blow,
Now the salt tides seaward flow;
Now the wild white horses play,
Champ and chafe and toss in the spray.
Children dear, let us away!
This way, this way!

Call her once before you go
Call once yet!
In a voice that she will know:
"Margaret! Margaret!"
Children's voices should be dear
(Call once more) to a mother's ear;

Children's voices, wild with pain
Surely she will come again!
Call her once and come away;
This way, this way!
"Mother dear, we cannot stay!
The wild white horses foam and fret."
Margaret! Margaret!

Come, dear children, come away down;
Call no more!
One last look at th...

Matthew Arnold

Anchor Song

Heh! Walk her round. Heave, ah, heave her short again!
Over, snatch her over, there, and hold her on the pawl.
Loose all sail, and brace your yards aback and full,
Ready jib to pay her off and heave short all!
Well, ah, fare you well; we can stay no more with you, my love,
Down, set down your liquor and your girl from off your knee;
For the wind has come to say:
"You must take me while you may,
If you'd go to Mother Carey
(Walk her down to Mother Carey!),
Oh, we're bound to Mother Carey where she feeds her chicks at sea!"

Heh! Walk her round. Break, ah, break it out o' that!
Break our starboard-bower out, apeak, awash, and clear!
Port, port she casts, with the harbour-mud beneath her foot,
And that's the last o' bottom we shall see this year!
Well, ah, fare y...

Rudyard

Kismet.

Into the rock the road is cut full deep,
    At its low ledges village children play,
From its high rifts fountains of leafage weep,
        And silvery birches sway.

The boldest climbers have its face forsworn,
    Sheer as a wall it doth all daring flout;
But benchlike at its base, and weather-worn,
        A narrow ledge leans out.

There do they set forth feasts in dishes rude
    Wrought of the rush - wild strawberries on the bed
Left into August, apples brown and crude,
        Cress from the cold well-head.

Shy gamesome girls, small daring imps of boys,
    But gentle, almost silent at their play -
Their fledgling daws, for food, make far more noise
        Ranged on the ledge than they.

The children and the purple martins share

Jean Ingelow

The Shipbuilders

The sky is ruddy in the east,
The earth is gray below,
And, spectral in the river-mist,
The ships white timbers show.
Then let the sounds of measured stroke
And grating saw begin;
The broad-axe to the gnarlèd oak,
The mallet to the pin!

Hark! roars the bellows, blast on blast,
The sooty smithy jars,
And fire-sparks, rising far and fast,
Are fading with the stars.
All day for us the smith shall stand
Beside that flashing forge;
All day for us his heavy hand
The groaning anvil scourge.

From far-off hills, the panting team
For us is toiling near;
For us the raftsmen down the stream
Their island barges steer.
Rings out for us the axe-mans stroke
In forests old and still,
For us the century-circled oak
Falls crashing...

John Greenleaf Whittier