The Dreamer
He lounges on the wharf and whittles pegs
While his pathetic gaze drifts out to sea,
Around him fishnets, anchors, empty kegs
And coils of rope are stored. His revery
Though deep, is sometimes broken by a sigh
As strange lights kindle in his faded eye.
A shapeless hat seems floating on his hair
Of wavy white. His clothes are patched and worn
His fingers palsy shaken, and an air
Of pathos and of helplessness forlorn
Enfolds him, as he lays his pipe aside
And gazes sadly at the ebbing tide.
His vision seems athirst to drink its fill
Of ocean’s mystery that he loves so well,
For he has lived adventure, lives it still,
Though age, long since, has yielded to the spell
Of brooding calm. No idle dreamer he,
His thoughts are busied on some far off sea.
Stern old Magellan and Sir Francis Drake
Heard tales from just such ancient sailor men,
Tales that inspired a zeal to undertake
Those stirring voyages beyond the ken
Of their small world. Discoverers bold, - and yet
They steered the course some unknown dreamer set!