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I. Off-Shore

The dappled blue of the evening sky,
With the cloud-rack in the west,
All purpled bright in the living light,
Like the Islands of the Blest.


And out of the islands sweeps the wind
As much as the sails can hold,
As we race home through the rustling foam
And the grey waves laced with gold.

II. In the Fog

The cool grey wraps us more and more,
Our slack sail lifts to the fitful wind,
And I see through the rift where the fog has thinned
The floating ghost of the distant shore.

III. On the Sand-Bar

The curdling foam on the blue-black sands,
The lap and splash of the rising tide,
As it slowly creeps to the farther side,
Where the lone tree stretches its ghostly hands.

IV. A Summer Storm

A leaden sea and a silver sky,
A line of light at the sunset edge,
Long wisps of cloud go drifting by,
While the white foam licks at the rocky ledge.


Then the shouting sea-wind takes its toll?
From the moaning forest's pain,
And the storm sweeps by with the thunder's roll,
And the rattle of the rain.

V. In the Pine-Woods

The sunlight through the pines
Touches the mossy stones with living green,
And marks the silver lines
Left where the fairy spinner's way has been.


With tender murmuring
The fragrant breezes steal from tree to tree,
And now the vagrants bring
The vital freshness of the distant sea.

VI. Outward-Bound

The schooner's sail is slack and drawn
And the schooner's wheel is still,
And the sick prow lifts through the shifting seas,
Like a thing bereft of will.


For the grey fog wraps us round, my lads,
And the good ship needs must stay,
Then hey and ho! for the bonny breeze,
That drives the fog away.


There's a crinkling over the sluggish waves,
A whispering in the sail,
And the schooner turns like a tired dog,
At the sound of his master's hail.


For the grey fog lifts off-shore, my lads,
And the good ship bounds away.
Then hey and ho! for the bonny breeze
That drives the fog away.