Two years have gone, and again I stand
On the bow of a mighty ship
That pushes her way‘ twixt sea and stars
With soft and dreamy dip.
Two years of labouring, heart and hand,
Of waging spirit-wars,
Of wondering ever what life is —
And if death heals its scars.
Two years; and again the mast-bell sounds
Above me — with a low voice,
As ghostly as the white phosphor-foam
That breaks with the old noise
Of waters that have washed all bounds
Of earth, that is man's home —
His ark — on the wide ether flung,
Unrestingly to roam.
For, even as we, is this our earth
An endless wanderer
Far down a universe with vast
Strange voyagings astir;
And where time ever brings to birth
A craving, never past,
To fare from where we are, to where
No anchor ever was cast.
A craving — in the mote, the man,
The mollusc and the star;
A yearning on — O life! O life!
How far leads it, how far?
All unbelievably began
Our voyage, mid a strange strife —
That, meaningless, yet seems to mean
It is with Wisdom rife.
But if it is not, shall we say,
“Let man scuttle his ship,
And drown in universal death
The griefs that at him grip?”
No; for no surety rests therein
To certain end of breath.
He can but let hope set the course
His soul foretokeneth.