The Ideal and the Actual.

My boat is on the bounding tide,
Away, away from surge and shore;
A waif upon the wave I ride,
Without a rudder or an oar.

Blow as ye list, ye breezes, blow
The compass now is nought to me;
Flow as ye will, ye billows, flow,
If but ye bear me out to sea.

Yon waving line of dusky blue,
Where care and toil oppress the heart
To thee I bid a long adieu,
And smile to feel that thus we part.

There let the sweating ploughman toil,
The yearning miser count his gain,
The fevered scholar waste his oil,
But I am bounding o'er the main!

How fresh these breezes to the brow
How dear this freedom to the soul;
Bright ocean, I am with thee now,
So let thy golden billows roll!

* * * * *

But stay what means this throbbing brain
This heaving chest these pulses quick?
Oh, take me to the land again,
For I am very, very sick!

Samuel Griswold Goodrich

Samuel Griswold Goodrich, born on August 19, 1793, and passing away on May 9, 1860, was an American author notable for his numerous children's books. Writing under the pseudonym 'Peter Parley,' he was a significant literary figure in the 19th century. Goodrich’s works were known for their educational content, aiming to teach young readers about history, geography, and other subjects in an engaging manner. His publications had a lasting impact on American children's literature.

Samuel Griswold Goodrich

The Golden Dream.

Samuel Griswold Goodrich, Simple Poetry

Perennials.

Samuel Griswold Goodrich, Simple Poetry

The Rose: To Ellen.

Samuel Griswold Goodrich, Simple Poetry

Remembrance.[A]

Samuel Griswold Goodrich, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

Ebb-Tide.

Long reaches of wet grasses sway
Where ran the sea but yesterday,
And white-winged boats at sunset drew
To anchor in the crimsoning blue.
The boats lie on the grassy plain,
Nor tug nor fret at anchor chain;
Their errand done, their impulse spent,
Chained by an alien element,
With sails unset they idly lie,
Though morning beckons brave and nigh;
Like wounded birds, their flight denied,
They lie, and long and wait the tide.

About their keels, within the net
Of tough grass fibres green and wet,
A myriad thirsty creatures, pent
In sorrowful imprisonment,
Await the beat, distinct and sweet,
Of the white waves' returning feet.
My soul their vigil joins, and shares
A nobler discontent than theirs;
Athirst like them, I patiently
Sit list...

Susan Coolidge

Hampton Beach

The sunlight glitters keen and bright,
Where, miles away,
Lies stretching to my dazzled sight
A luminous belt, a misty light,
Beyond the dark pine bluffs and wastes of sandy gray.

The tremulous shadow of the Sea!
Against its ground
Of silvery light, rock, hill, and tree,
Still as a picture, clear and free,
With varying outline mark the coast for miles around.

On, on, we tread with loose-flung rein
Our seaward way,
Through dark-green fields and blossoming grain,
Where the wild brier-rose skirts the lane,
And bends above our heads the flowering locust spray.

Ha! like a kind hand on my brow
Comes this fresh breeze,
Cooling its dull and feverish glow,
While through my being seems to flow
The breath of a new life, the healing of the...

John Greenleaf Whittier

The Sea-Bird.

Far, far o'er the deep is my island throne,
Where the sea-gull roams and reigns alone;
Where nought is seen but the beetling rock,
And nought is heard but the ocean-shock,
And the scream of birds when the storm is nigh,
And the crash of the wreck, and the fearful cry
Of drowning men, in their agony.
I love to sit, when the waters sleep,
And ponder the depths of the glassy deep,
Till I dream that I float on a corse at sea,
And sing of the feast that is made for me.
I love on the rush of the storm to sail,
And mingle my scream with the hoarser gale.
When the sky is dark, and the billow high,
When the tempest sweeps in its terror by,
I love to ride on the maddening blast
To flap my wing o'er the fated mast,
And sing to the crew a song of fear,
Of the re...

Samuel Griswold Goodrich

A Burial At Sea.

The shore hath blent with the distant skies,
O'er the bend of the crested seas,
And the leaning ship in her pathway flies,
On the sweep of the freshened breeze.

Swift be its flight! for a dying guest
It bears across the billow,
And she fondly sighs in her native West
To find a peaceful pillow.

There, o'er the tide, her kindred sleep,
And she would sleep beside them
It may not be! for the sea is deep,
And the waves the waves divide them!

It may not be! for the flush is flown,
That lighted her lily cheek
'Twas the passing beam, ere the sun goes down.
Life's last and loveliest streak.

'Tis gone, and a dew is o'er her now
The dew of the mornless eve
No morrow will shine on that pallid brow,
For the spirit hath ta'en its leave...

Samuel Griswold Goodrich

The Surf Sprite.

I.

In the far off sea there is many a sprite,
Who rests by day, but awakes at night.
In hidden caves where monsters creep,
When the sun is high, these spectres sleep:
From the glance of noon, they shrink with dread,
And hide 'mid the bones of the ghastly dead.
Where the surf is hushed, and the light is dull,
In the hollow tube and the whitened skull,
They crouch in fear or in whispers wail,
For the lingering night, and the coming gale.
But at even-tide, when the shore is dim,
And bubbling wreaths with the billows swim,
They rise on the wing of the freshened breeze,
And flit with the wind o'er the rolling seas.


II.

At summer eve, as I sat on the cliff,
I marked a shape like a dusky skiff,
That skimmed the brine, toward the rock...

Samuel Griswold Goodrich

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