On the Prow

Strange, silent East! Across the solemn calm The slender ship outward and onward strives, Bearing to odorous shores of date and palm The burden of a hundred little lives.

On a like course drift I toward the verge Beyond which lies what now I may not know; Yet my heart whispers these gray wastes of surge Stretch whither it is good for me to go.

Youth, like the speeding sun, left far behind— Unanswered questions mutely sent before— Oh, great, dim East, what welcome shall I find When thy wide arms unveil the distant shore?

The prow knows not the harbor that it nears, Nor I if thou shalt bring the seeker rest:— Yet the strong hand the fragile ship that steers Will guide her to the haven that is best!