“As The Crow Flies”

Buccaneer with blackest sails, Steering home by compass true, Now that all the rich West pales From its ingot-hue!

Would that compass in thy breast Thou couldst lend, for guiding me Where my Hope hath made her nest-- In how far a tree!

Swerving not, nor stooping low, To that dear, that distant mark Could I undiverted go, What were coming dark?

--Careless of the twilight ground, O’er the wood and o’er the stream Still he sails, with hollow sound Strange, as in a dream!