Yon mooréd mackerel fleet
Hangs thick as a swarm of bees,
Or a clustering village street
Foundationless built on the seas.
The mariners ply their craft,
Each set in his castle frail;
His care is all for the draught,
And he dries the rain-beaten sail.
For rain came down in the night,
And thunder muttered full oft,
But now the azure is bright.
And hawks are wheeling aloft.
I take the land to my breast,
In her coat with daisies fine;
For me are the hills in their best,
And all that's made is mine.
Sing high! “Though the red sun dip,
There yet is a day for me;
Nor youth I count for a ship
That long ago foundered at sea.
“Did the lost love die and depart?
Many times since we have met;
For I hold the years in my heart,
And all that was — is yet.
“I grant to the king his reign;
Let us yield him homage due;
But over the lands there are twain,
O king, I must rule as you.
“I grant to the wise his meed,
But his yoke I will not brook,
For God taught ME to read,—
He lent me the world for a book.”