Helen Maria (Fiske) (Hunt) Jackson (1830–1885)

O LOVE, sweet Love, who came with rosy sail

And foaming prow across the misty sea!

O Love, brave Love, whose faith was full and free

That lands of sun and gold, which could not fail,

Lay in the west, that bloom no wintry gale

Could blight, and eyes whose love thine own should be,

Called thee, with steadfast voice of prophecy,

To shores unknown!
O Love, poor Love, avail

Thee nothing now thy faiths, thy braveries;

There is no sun, no bloom; a cold wind strips

The bitter foam from off the wave where dips

No more thy prow; the eyes are hostile eyes;

The gold is hidden; vain thy tears and cries;

O Love, poor Love, why didst thou burn thy ships?