And one by one our little conclave thinned, Passed into ships and sailed and so away, To drown in some great roaring of the wind, Wanderers themselves, unhappy fortune’s prey. And Time went by me making memory dim, Yet still I wondered if the _Wanderer_ fared Still pointing to the unreached ocean’s rim, Brightening the water where her breast was bared. And much in ports abroad I eyed the ships, Hoping to see her well-remembered form Come with a curl of bubbles at her lips Bright to her berth, the sovereign of the storm. I never did, and many years went by, Then, near a Southern port, one Christmas Eve, I watched a gale go roaring through the sky, Making the caldrons of the clouds upheave. Then the wrack tattered and the stars appeared, Millions of stars that seemed to speak in fire; A byre cock cried aloud that morning neared, The swinging wind-vane flashed upon the spire. And soon men looked upon a glittering earth, Intensely sparkling like a world new-born; Only to look was spiritual birth, So bright the raindrops ran along the thorn. So bright they were, that one could almost pass Beyond their twinkling to the source, and know The glory pushing in the blade of grass, That hidden soul which makes the flowers grow. That soul was there apparent, not revealed, Unearthly meanings covered every tree, That wet grass grew in an immortal field, Those waters fed some never-wrinkled sea. The scarlet berries in the hedge stood out Like revelations but the tongue unknown; Even in the brooks a joy was quick: the trout Rushed in a dumbness dumb to me alone. All of the valley was aloud with brooks; I walked the morning, breasting up the fells, Taking again lost childhood from the rooks, Whose cawing came above the Christmas bells. I had not walked that glittering world before, But up the hill a prompting came to me, “This line of upland runs along the shore: Beyond the hedgerow I shall see the sea.” And on the instant from beyond away That long familiar sound, a ship’s bell, broke The hush below me in the unseen bay. Old memories came: that inner prompting spoke. And bright above the hedge a seagull’s wings Flashed and were steady upon empty air. “A Power unseen,” I cried, “prepares these things; “Those are her bells, the _Wanderer_ is there.” So, hurrying to the hedge and looking down, I saw a mighty bay’s wind-crinkled blue Ruffling the image of a tranquil town, With lapsing waters glittering as they grew. And near me in the road the shipping swung, So stately and so still in such great peace That like to drooping crests their colours hung, Only their shadows trembled without cease.