En.Citatepedia^®.ro

On the Prow

Strange, silent East! Across the solemn calm
The slender ship outward and onward strives,
Bearing to odorous shores of date and palm
The burden of a hundred little lives.

On a like course drift I toward the verge
Beyond which lies what now I may not know;
Yet my heart whispers these gray wastes of surge
Stretch whither it is good for me to go.

Youth, like the speeding sun, left far behind—
Unanswered questions mutely sent before—
Oh, great, dim East, what welcome shall I find
When thy wide arms unveil the distant shore?

The prow knows not the harbor that it nears,
Nor I if thou shalt bring the seeker rest:—
Yet the strong hand the fragile ship that steers
Will guide her to the haven that is best!

poem by Guy Wetmore Carryl from The Garden of Years and Other Poems (1896)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Great Titanic

It was on one Monday morning just about one o'clock
When that great Titanic began to reel and rock;
People began to scream and cry,
Saying, 'Lord, am I going to die?'

Chorus

It was sad when that great ship went down,
It was sad when that great ship went down,
Husbands and wives and little children lost their lives,
It was sad when that great ship went down
.

When that ship left England it was making for the shore,
The rich had declared that they would not ride with the poor,
So they put the poor below,
They were the first to go.

While they were building they said what they would do,
We will build a ship that water can't go through;
But God with power in hand
Showed the world that it could not stand.

Those people on that ship were a long ways from home,
With friends all around they did n't know that the time had come;
Death came riding by,
Sixteen hundred had to die.

While Paul was sailing his men around,
God told him that not a man should drown;
If you trust and obey,
I will save you all to-day.

You know it must have been awful with those people on the sea,
They say that they were singing, 'Nearer My God to Thee.'
While some were homeward bound,
Sixteen hundred had to drown.

poem by Anonymous Americas
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Dead Ship Of Harpswell

What flecks the outer gray beyond
The sundown's golden trail?
The white flash of a sea-bird's wing,
Or gleam of slanting sail?
Let young eyes watch from Neck and Point,
And sea-worn elders pray,--
The ghost of what was once a ship
Is sailing up the bay.

From gray sea-fog, from icy drift,
From peril and from pain,
The home-bound fisher greets thy lights,
O hundred-harbored Maine!
But many a keel shall seaward turn,
And many a sail outstand,
When, tall and white, the Dead Ship looms
Against the dusk of land.

She rounds the headland's bristling pines;
She threads the isle-set bay;
No spur of breeze can speed her on,
Nor ebb of tide delay.
Old men still walk the Isle of Orr
Who tell her date and name,
Old shipwrights sit in Freeport yards
Who hewed her oaken frame.

What weary doom of baffled quest,
Thou sad sea-ghost, is thine?
What makes thee in the haunts of home
A wonder and a sign?
No foot is on thy silent deck,
Upon thy helm no hand;
No ripple hath the soundless wind
That smites thee from the land!

For never comes the ship to port,
Howe'er the breeze may be;
Just when she nears the waiting shore
She drifts again to sea.
No tack of sail, nor turn of helm,
Nor sheer of veering side;
Stern-fore she drives to sea and night,
Against the wind and tide.

In vain o'er Harpswell Neck the star
Of evening guides her in;
In vain for her the lamps are lit
Within thy tower, Seguin!
In vain the harbor-boat shall hail,
In vain the pilot call;
No hand shall reef her spectral sail,
Or let her anchor fall.

Shake, brown old wives, with dreary joy,
Your gray-head hints of ill;
And, over sick-beds whispering low,
Your prophecies fulfil.
Some home amid yon birchen trees
Shall drape its door with woe;
And slowly where the Dead Ship sails,
The burial boat shall row!

From Wolf Neck and from Flying Point,
From island and from main,
From sheltered cove and tided creek,
Shall glide the funeral train.
The dead-boat with the bearers four,
The mourners at her stern,--
And one shall go the silent way
Who shall no more return!

And men shall sigh, and women weep,
Whose dear ones pale and pine,
And sadly over sunset seas
Await the ghostly sign.
They know not that its sails are filled
By pity's tender breath,
Nor see the Angel at the helm
Who steers the Ship of Death!

. . . . .

'Chill as a down-east breeze should be,'
The Book-man said. 'A ghostly touch
The legend has. I'm glad to see
Your flying Yankee beat the Dutch.'
'Well, here is something of the sort
Which one midsummer day I caught
In Narragansett Bay, for lack of fish.'
'We wait,' the Traveller said;
'serve hot or cold your dish.'

poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Ship To Shore

When you pulled at the wheel with me
To steer our fragile ship of state
We nosed toward uncharted seas
But found our course within a lake.

And every where that we did turn
There loomed another barren shore,
We turned, and then did turn about
To find we'd sailed each course before.

And you would chafe at each restraint
And I would rush to catch each squall
That filled our sails a little while
Before we lay becalmed once more.

Then you would see each distant point
As bearings, where your freedom lay
And drive our ship before the storm
For day upon each battered day.

'Til we had sailed on every course
That wit or will could still devise
While biting tongue and sharp retort
Became the language of our lives.

At every turn, a shallow reef
To wreck the hopes that we had shared,
Each tack would bring us near to grief
Each luff would leave us near despair.

But then you spied some promised ground
And took the boat on that same shore
That we had left together, once
Though never to return, we swore.

The ship of state rolled drunkenly,
I could not steer, nor go ashore
And so each watched the other weep
For you would cry, and I implore.

'Til you rowed back to join the ship
But we were fast upon some reef,
And soon you turned to carp and wit
To speed you on your long retreat.

A thousand times you made that trip,
A thousand times from ship to shore
But now the tide's exposed the rip,
There's nothing left to journey for.

And you may live your life ashore
While I attend some new design,
Our ship of state once went to war -
I burned her to the waterline.

20 September 1989

poem by David Lewis Paget
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Captain Of Your Soul

Are you captain of your soul
that lives with you and makes you whole?
Or are there mutineers tearing at you,
attacking you so your soul can't get through?
If you steer your ship with your soul at the wheel
all of your voyages will keep an even keel.
You will not falter during stormy seas.
For your soul will keep your ship at ease.
It will guide you safely to distant shores.
It will keep you dry whenever rain pours.
For as the captain of your soul you'll find
you will leave the fierce winds all behind.

poem by Edwina Reizer
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Harbor Lights

(words & music by h. williams - j. kennedy)
I saw the harbor lights
They only told me we were parting
Those same old harbor lights
That once brought you to me.
I watched the harbor lights
How could I help it?
Tears were starting.
Good-bye to golden nights
Beside the silvery seas.
I long to hold you dear,
And kiss you just once more.
But you were on the ship,
And I was on the shore.
Now I know lonely nights
For all the while my heart keeps praying
That someday harbor lights
Will bring you back to me.

song performed by by Elvis Presley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Woe Is Me

Far in the cradling sky,
Dawn opes his baby eye,
Then I awake and cry,
Woe is me!

Morn, the young hunter gay,
Chases the shadows gray,
Then I go forth and say,
Woe is me!

Noon! drunk with oil and wine,
Tho' not a grief is thine,
Yet shalt thou shake with mine!
Woe is me!

Eve kneeleth sad and calm,
Bearing the martyr's palm;
I shriek above her psalm,
Woe is me!

Night, hid in her black hair
From eyes she cannot dare,
Lies loud with fierce despair;
Then I sit silent where
She cries from her dark lair
Woe is me!

poem by Sydney Thompson Dobell
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Undulating dreams...

The waves volatile
The sea deceptive
Grey sky hid
The star that steers

Where's the shore?

Wind singing dirge
Waves echoing agony

My ship! My ship! My ship!

poem by Indira Babbellapati
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Pilgrimage

Wanderer from a fading strand
Unto shadowy shores unknown,
Thou whose sails are onward fanned
By flattering breezes,—hast thou planned
All thy course alone?

Canst thou tell, now clouds begin
To gather in thy path of day,
To what harbor thou shalt win,
As the long night closes in
On a wilder way?

Pilgrim, no: I cannot tell.
Strange my course, and stormy woes
And darkness may obscure its close;
Yet I feel that all is well,
For my Pilot knows!

poem by Florence Earle Coates from Poems (1898)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Hospital Ship

There is a green-lit hospital ship,
Green, with a crimson cross,
Lazily swaying there in the bay,
Lazily bearing my friend away,
Leaving me dull-sensed loss.
Green-lit, red-lit hospital ship,
Numb is my heart, but you carelessly dip
There in the drift of the bay.

There is a green-lit hospital ship,
Dim as the distance grows,
Speedily steaming out of the bay,
Speedily bearing my friend away
Into the orange-rose.
Green-lit, red-lit hospital ship,
Dim are my eyes, but you heedlessly slip
Out of their sight from the bay.

There was a green-lit hospital ship,
Green, with a blood-red cross,
Lazily swaying there in the bay,
But it went out with the light of the day -
Out where the white seas toss.
Green-lit, red-lit hospital ship,
Cold are my hands and trembling my lip:
Did you make home from the bay?

poem by W.H. Littlejohn
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My Ships

If all the ships I have at sea
Should come a-sailing home to me,
From sunny lands, and lands of cold,
Ah well! the harbor could not hold
So many sails as there would be
If all my ships came in from sea.

If half my ships came home from sea,
And brought their precious freight to me,
Ah, well! I should have wealth as great
As any king who sits in state,
So rich the treasures that would be
In half my ships now at sea.

If just one ship I have at sea
Should come a-sailing home to me,
Ah well! the storm clouds then might frown,
For if the others all went down
Still rich and proud and glad I’d be,
If that one ship came back to me.

If that one ship were down at sea,
And all the others came to me,
Weighed down with gems and wealth untold,
With glory, honor, riches, gold,
The poorest soul on earth I’d be
If that one ship came not to me.

O skies be calm! O winds blow free--
Blow all my ships safe home to me.
But if thou sendest some awrack
To never more come sailing back,
Send any--all that skim the sea--
But bring my love-ship home to me.

poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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A Passer-by

Whither, O splendid ship, thy white sails crowding,
Leaning across the bosom of the urgent West,
That fearest nor sea rising, nor sky clouding,
Whither away, fair rover, and what thy quest?
Ah! soon, when Winter has all our vales opprest,
When skies are cold and misty, and hail is hurling,
Wilt thoù glìde on the blue Pacific, or rest
In a summer haven asleep, thy white sails furling.

I there before thee, in the country that well thou knowest,
Already arrived am inhaling the odorous air:
I watch thee enter unerringly where thou goest,
And anchor queen of the strange shipping there,
Thy sails for awnings spread, thy masts bare:
Nor is aught from the foaming reef to the snow-capp'd grandest
Peak, that is over the feathery palms, more fair
Than thou, so upright, so stately and still thou standest.

And yet, O splendid ship, unhail'd and nameless,
I know not if, aiming a fancy, I rightly divine
That thou hast a purpose joyful, a courage blameless,
Thy port assured in a happier land than mine.
But for all I have given thee, beauty enough is thine,
As thou, aslant with trim tackle and shrouding,
From the proud nostril curve of a prow's line
In the offing scatterest foam, thy white sails crowding.

poem by Robert Bridges
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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When the Great Gray Ships Come In

To eastward ringing, to westward winging, o’er mapless miles of sea,
On winds and tides the gospel rides that the furthermost isles are free,
And the furthermost isles make answer, harbor, and height, and hill,
Breaker and beach cry, each to each, “’Tis the Mother who calls! Be still!”
Mother! new-found, beloved, and strong to hold from harm,
Stretching to these across the seas the shield of her sovereign arm,
Who summoned the guns of her sailor sons, who bade her navies roam,
Who calls again to the leagues of main, and who calls them this time home!

And the great gray ships are silent, and the weary watchers rest;
The black cloud dies in the August skies, and deep in the golden west
Invisible hands are limning a glory of crimson bars,
And far above is the wonder of a myriad wakened stars!
Peace! As the tidings silence the strenuous cannonade,
Peace at last! is the bugle blast the length of the long blockade,
And eyes of vigil weary are lit with the glad release,
From ship to ship and from lip to lip it is “Peace! Thank God for peace.”

Ah, in the sweet hereafter Columbia still shall show
The sons of these who swept the seas how she bade them rise and go,—
How, when the stirring summons smote on her children’s ear,
South and North at the call stood forth, and the whole land answered, “Here!”
For the soul of the soldier’s story and the heart of the sailor’s song
Are all of those who meet their foes as right should meet with wrong,
Who fight their guns till the foeman runs, and then, on the decks they trod,
Brave faces raise, and give the praise to the grace of their country’s God!

Yes, it is good to battle, and good to be strong and free,
To carry the hearts of a people to the uttermost ends of sea,
To see the day steal up the bay where the enemy lies in wait,
To run your ship to the harbor’s lip and sink her across the strait:—
But better the golden evening when the ships round heads for home,
And the long gray miles slip swiftly past in a swirl of seething foam,
And the people wait at the haven’s gate to greet the men who win!
Thank God for peace! Thank God for peace, when the great gray ships come in!

poem by Guy Wetmore Carryl from The Garden of Years and Other Poems (1898)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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A Passer-by

Whither, O splendid ship, thy white sails crowding,
Leaning across the bosom of the urgent West,
That fearest nor sea rising, nor sky clouding,
Whither away, fair rover, and what thy quest?
Ah! soon, when Winter has all our vales opprest,
When skies are cold and misty, and hail is hurling,
Wilt thoù glìde on the blue Pacific, or rest
In a summer haven asleep, thy white sails furling.

I there before thee, in the country that well thou knowest,
Already arrived am inhaling the odorous air:
I watch thee enter unerringly where thou goest,
And anchor queen of the strange shipping there,
Thy sails for awnings spread, thy masts bare:
Nor is aught from the foaming reef to the snow-capp'd grandest
Peak, that is over the feathery palms, more fair
Than thou, so upright, so stately and still thou standest.

And yet, O splendid ship, unhail'd and nameless,
I know not if, aiming a fancy, I rightly divine
That thou hast a purpose joyful, a courage blameless,
Thy port assured in a happier land than mine.
But for all I have given thee, beauty enough is thine,
As thou, aslant with trim tackle and shrouding,
From the proud nostril curve of a prow's line
In the offing scatterest foam, thy white sails crowding.

poem by Robert Seymour Bridges
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Pacific Age

The pacific age
Is growing strong
Its arms embrace witth a killing grace
It shakes your hand as it takes your place
The modern age
Like a slow revenge
A wave that breaks over distant shores
It begs for mercy
And it take some more and more and more
The pacific age
Comes down like rain
Washing over us again and again
Its spreading west
Like a speeding train
As the wheels slow down and we lose the game
The pacific age
Tells no lies
A dream that calls like an open door
It keeps you hoping
And it takes some more and more and more
The pacific age
Comes down like rain
Washing over us again and again
Its spreading west
Like a speeding train
As the wheels slow down and we lose the game
The pacific age
Comes down like rain
Washing over us again and again
Its spreading west
Like a speeding train
As the wheels slow down and we lose the game
The pacific age
Has no regrets
It feeds on dreams
It wins its bets
A new dawn breaks from east to west
And the plans we made stop making sense
The pacific age
It calls your name
It bites you hand, you feel no pain
And racing home. you run in vane
As your heart slows down and you lose the game

song performed by by Omd
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Palm-Tree

Is it the palm, the cocoa-palm,
On the Indian Sea, by the isles of balm?
Or is it a ship in the breezeless calm?

A ship whose keel is of palm beneath,
Whose ribs of palm have a palm-bark sheath,
And a rudder of palm it steereth with.

Branches of palm are its spars and rails,
Fibres of palm are its woven sails,
And the rope is of palm that idly trails!

What does the good ship bear so well?
The cocoa-nut with its stony shell,
And the milky sap of its inner cell.

What are its jars, so smooth and fine,
But hollowed nuts, filled with oil and wine,
And the cabbage that ripens under the Line?

Who smokes his nargileh, cool and calm?
The master, whose cunning and skill could charm
Cargo and ship from the bounteous palm.

In the cabin he sits on a palm-mat soft,
From a beaker of palm his drink is quaffed,
And a palm-thatch shields from the sun aloft!

His dress is woven of palmy strands,
And he holds a palm-leaf scroll in his hands,
Traced with the Prophet's wise commands!

The turban folded about his head
Was daintily wrought of the palm-leaf braid,
And the fan that cools him of palm was made.

Of threads of palm was the carpet spun
Whereon he kneels when the day is done,
And the foreheads of Islam are bowed as one!

To him the palm is a gift divine,
Wherein all uses of man combine,--
House, and raiment, and food, and wine!

And, in the hour of his great release,
His need of the palm shall only cease
With the shroud wherein he lieth in peace.

'Allah il Allah!' he sings his psalm,
On the Indian Sea, by the isles of balm;
'Thanks to Allah who gives the palm!'

poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Strange Relationship

I guess u know me well, I dont like winter
But I seem 2 get a kick out of doing u cold
Oh, what the hell, u always surrender
Whats this strange relationship that we hold on 2?
Baby I just cant stand 2 see u happy
More than that I hate 2 see u sad
Honey if u left me I just might do something rash
Whats this strange relationship? (ship, ship, ship)
I came and took your love, I took your body
I took all the self respect u ever had
I took u 4 a ride and baby Im sorry
The more u love me sugar, the more it makes me mad
Baby I just cant stand 2 see u happy
More than that I hate 2 see u sad
Honey if u left me I just might do something rash
Whats this strange relationship? (ship, ship, ship)
Isnt it a shame this aint a movie
Then u could rewrite my every line
Ill take all the blame, yo baby Im sorry
But I didnt like the way u where, so I had 2 make u mine
Baby I just cant stand 2 see u happy
More than that I hate 2 see u sad
Honey if u left me I just might do something rash
Whats this strange relationship? (ship, ship, ship)
Mmmmm, my strange relationship
Cant live with u, cant live without u
Thats all about..
Do u know? (strange relationship)
I think u and I got a (strange relationship)
Whats this strange relationship?
Yeah, yeah [repeated to fade]

song performed by by Prince
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Onward

Have the blasts of sorrow worn thee,
Have the rocks of danger torn thee,
And thus shifted, wreck-like drifted,
Wouldst thou find a port in time?
Vain the quest! That word sublime—
God’s great one word,
Silent never, pealeth ever,
Onward!
Hast thou done all loving duty,
Hast thou clothed thy soul with beauty,
And wouldst rest then, wholly blest then,
In some sunny lapse of time?
Vain the hope! The word sublime—
God’s great one word,
Silent never, pealeth ever,
Onward!

Hast thou won the heart of glory,
Hast thou charmed the tongue of story,
And wouldst pause then for applause then,
Underneath the stars of time?
Vain the lure! That word sublime—
God’s great one word,
Silent never, pealeth ever,
Onward!

Truth and virtue hast thou wrought for,
Faith and freedom hast thou fought for,
And then shrinkest for thou thinkest
Paid is all thy debt in time?
Vain the thought! That word sublime—
God’s great one word,
Silent never, pealeth ever,
Onward!

From endeavour to endeavour,
Journeying with hours for ever,
Or aspiring, or acquiring
This, O man, is life in time,
Urged by that primal word sublime—
God’s great one word,
Silent never, pealeth ever,
Onward!

poem by Charles Harpur
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Nearest Distant Shore

(written by gary harrison, tim mensy)
You fight for every breath
Caught without a ship in this sea of neglect
The one you swore to love is pulling you down
Youre in over your head
Chilled to the bone by the waters youve tread
Chart a course to land, before you drown
Swim to the nearest distant shore
Theres only so much a heart can endure
You gave it your best, forgive yourself
You cant hold on anymore
Its not as far as it might seem
Now its time to let go of old dreams
Every heart for itself
Swim to the nearest distant shore
He said for you hed change
Then hed let you down and watch you take the blame
Youre trapped between his lies and the great unknown
You vowed you would not fail
But this aint success its a living hell
Theres nothing left to lose, youre already alone
Swim to the nearest distant shore
Theres only so much a heart can endure
You gave it your best, forgive yourself
You cant hold on anymore
Its not as far as it might seem
Now its time to let go of old dreams
Every heart for itself
Swim to the nearest distant shore

song performed by by Trisha Yearwood
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Crossing the Atlantic

We sail out of season into on oyster-gray wind,
over a terrible hardness.
Where Dickens crossed with mal de mer
in twenty weeks or twenty days
I cross toward him in five.
Wraped in robes-
not like Caesar but like liver with bacon-
I rest on the stern
burning my mouth with a wind-hot ash,
watching my ship
bypass the swells
as easily as an old woman reads a palm.
I think; as I look North, that a field of mules
lay down to die.

The ship is 27 hours out.
I have entered her.
She might be a whale,
sleeping 2000 and ship's company,
the last 40¢ martini
and steel staterooms where night goes on forever.
Being inside them is, I think,
the way one would dig into a planet
and forget the word light.
I have walked cities,
miles of mole alleys with carpets.
Inside I have been ten girls who speak French.
They languish everywhere like bedsheets.

Oh my Atlantic of the cracked shores,
those blemished gates of Rockport and Boothbay,
those harbor smells like the innards of animals!
Old childish Queen, where did you go,
you bayer at wharfs and Victorian houses?

I have read each page of my mother's voyage.
I have read each page of her mother's voyage.
I have learned their words as they learned Dickens'.
I have swallowed these words like bullets.
But I have forgotten the last guest-terror.
Unlike them, I cannot toss in the cabin
as in childbirth.
Now always leaving me in the West
is the wake,
a ragged bridal veil, unexplained,
seductive, always rushing down the stairs,
never detained, never enough.

The ship goes on
as though nothing else were happening.
Generation after generation,
I go her way.
She will run East, knot by knot, over an old bloodstream,
stripping it clear,
each hour ripping it, pounding, pounding,
forcing through as through a virgin.
Oh she is so quick!
This dead street never stops!

poem by Anne Sexton
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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In The Days When The World Was Wide

The world is narrow and ways are short, and our lives are dull and slow,
For little is new where the crowds resort, and less where the wanderers go;
Greater, or smaller, the same old things we see by the dull road-side --
And tired of all is the spirit that sings
of the days when the world was wide.

When the North was hale in the march of Time,
and the South and the West were new,
And the gorgeous East was a pantomime, as it seemed in our boyhood's view;
When Spain was first on the waves of change,
and proud in the ranks of pride,
And all was wonderful, new and strange in the days when the world was wide.

Then a man could fight if his heart were bold,
and win if his faith were true --
Were it love, or honour, or power, or gold, or all that our hearts pursue;
Could live to the world for the family name, or die for the family pride,
Could fly from sorrow, and wrong, and shame
in the days when the world was wide.

They sailed away in the ships that sailed ere science controlled the main,
When the strong, brave heart of a man prevailed
as 'twill never prevail again;
They knew not whither, nor much they cared --
let Fate or the winds decide --
The worst of the Great Unknown they dared
in the days when the world was wide.

They raised new stars on the silent sea that filled their hearts with awe;
They came to many a strange countree and marvellous sights they saw.
The villagers gaped at the tales they told,
and old eyes glistened with pride --
When barbarous cities were paved with gold
in the days when the world was wide.

'Twas honest metal and honest wood, in the days of the Outward Bound,
When men were gallant and ships were good -- roaming the wide world round.
The gods could envy a leader then when `Follow me, lads!' he cried --
They faced each other and fought like men
in the days when the world was wide.

They tried to live as a freeman should -- they were happier men than we,
In the glorious days of wine and blood, when Liberty crossed the sea;
'Twas a comrade true or a foeman then, and a trusty sword well tried --
They faced each other and fought like men
in the days when the world was wide.

The good ship bound for the Southern seas when the beacon was Ballarat,
With a `Ship ahoy!' on the freshening breeze,
`Where bound?' and `What ship's that?' --
The emigrant train to New Mexico -- the rush to the Lachlan Side --
Ah! faint is the echo of Westward Ho!
from the days when the world was wide.

South, East, and West in advance of Time -- and, ay! in advance of Thought
Those brave men rose to a height sublime -- and is it for this they fought?
And is it for this damned life we praise the god-like spirit that died
At Eureka Stockade in the Roaring Days
with the days when the world was wide?

We fight like women, and feel as much; the thoughts of our hearts we guard;
Where scarcely the scorn of a god could touch,
the sneer of a sneak hits hard;
The treacherous tongue and cowardly pen, the weapons of curs, decide --
They faced each other and fought like men
in the days when the world was wide.

Think of it all -- of the life that is! Study your friends and foes!
Study the past! And answer this: `Are these times better than those?'
The life-long quarrel, the paltry spite, the sting of your poisoned pride!
No matter who fell it were better to fight
as they did when the world was wide.

Boast as you will of your mateship now -- crippled and mean and sly --
The lines of suspicion on friendship's brow
were traced since the days gone by.
There was room in the long, free lines of the van
to fight for it side by side --
There was beating-room for the heart of a man
in the days when the world was wide.

. . . . .

With its dull, brown days of a-shilling-an-hour
the dreary year drags round:
Is this the result of Old England's power?
-- the bourne of the Outward Bound?
Is this the sequel of Westward Ho! -- of the days of Whate'er Betide?
The heart of the rebel makes answer `No!
We'll fight till the world grows wide!'

The world shall yet be a wider world -- for the tokens are manifest;
East and North shall the wrongs be hurled that followed us South and West.
The march of Freedom is North by the Dawn! Follow, whate'er betide!
Sons of the Exiles, march! March on! March till the world grows wide!

poem by Henry Lawson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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