When the mist drives past and the wind blows high,
And the harbour lights are dim —
See where they circle, and dip and fly,
The grey free-lances of wind and sky,
To the water's distant rim!
Like spirits possessed of a fierce delight,
A courage that cannot fail,
They face the breakers — they face the night —
The mad storm-horses are silvery white,
They ride through the bitter gale!
They seem like the souls of the long, long lost,
Who breasted the ocean-main —
Vikings whose vessels were tempest-tossed,
Voyagers who sailed, whatever the cost,
And never came home again.
Or stranger and wilder fancy — it seems
As I hear their wind-torn cry,
No birds fly there through the sun's last gleams,
But the wraiths of hopes — the ghosts of dreams
That the old sea-gods saw die.
When the mist drives past and the wind blows high,
And the harbour lights are dim —
See where they circle, and dip and fly,
The grey free-lances of wind and sky,
To the far horizon's rim.