Arthur Quiller-Couch, ed. 1919. The Oxford Book of English Verse: 1250–1900.
Robert Bridges. b. 1844835. A Passer-by
WHITHER, O splendid ship, thy white sails crowding, | |
Leaning across the bosom of the urgent West, | |
That fearest nor sea rising, nor sky clouding, | |
Whither away, fair rover, and what thy quest? | |
Ah! soon, when Winter has all our vales opprest, | 5 |
When skies are cold and misty, and hail is hurling, | |
Wilt thoù glìde on the blue Pacific, or rest | |
In a summer haven asleep, thy white sails furling. | |
I there before thee, in the country that well thou knowest, | |
Already arrived am inhaling the odorous air: | 10 |
I watch thee enter unerringly where thou goest, | |
And anchor queen of the strange shipping there, | |
Thy sails for awnings spread, thy masts bare: | |
Nor is aught from the foaming reef to the snow-capp’d grandest | |
Peak, that is over the feathery palms, more fair | 15 |
Than thou, so upright, so stately and still thou standest. | |
And yet, O splendid ship, unhail’d and nameless, | |
I know not if, aiming a fancy, I rightly divine | |
That thou hast a purpose joyful, a courage blameless, | |
Thy port assured in a happier land than mine. | 20 |
But for all I have given thee, beauty enough is thine, | |
As thou, aslant with trim tackle and shrouding, | |
From the proud nostril curve of a prow’s line | |
In the offing scatterest foam, thy white sails crowding. |