The Shipwrecked Sailor

There blossomed into golden day another rosy morn: The ship-wrecked sailor woke, and watched again, of hope forlorn, From his high, purple-misted peak, a rag about his hip: His only dream, his native land - his only prayer, a ship! The fringe of surf laced in and out along the shell-strewn shore; Beside the reef strange creatures sailed plying a sentient oar, And, great and wide, the sea rolled far in azure distant dim And laved the edges of the sky with its blue-washing rim. The sailor thought of paven streets in a far smoky town Where day and night the cable-cars went booming up and down: Each little common thought of men smote through him like a dart, And memories of a woman winged like white birds through his heart.