Far spread, below, The sea that fast hath locked in his loose flow All secrets of Atlantis' drowned woe Lay bound about with night on every hand, Save down the eastern brink a shining band Of day made out a little way from land. Then from that shore the wind upbore a cry: `Thou Sea, thou Sea of Darkness! why, oh why Dost waste thy West in unthrift mystery?' But ever the idiot sea-mouths foam and fill, And never a wave doth good for man or ill, And Blank is king, and Nothing hath his will; And like as grim-beaked pelicans level file Across the sunset toward their nightly isle On solemn wings that wave but seldomwhile, So leanly sails the day behind the day To where the Past's lone Rock o'erglooms the spray, And down its mortal fissures sinks away. Master, Master, break this ban: The wave lacks Thee. Oh, is it not to widen man Stretches the sea? Oh, must the sea-bird's idle van Alone be free? Into the Sea of the Dark doth creep Bjoerne's pallid sail, As the face of a walker in his sleep, Set rigid and most pale, About the night doth peer and peep In a dream of an ancient tale. Lo, here is made a hasty cry: `Land, land, upon the west! -- God save such land! Go by, go by: Here may no mortal rest, Where this waste hell of slate doth lie And grind the glacier's breast.' The sail goeth limp: hey, flap and strain! Round eastward slanteth the mast; As the sleep-walker waked with pain, White-clothed in the midnight blast, Doth stare and quake, and stride again To houseward all aghast. Yet as, `A ghost!' his household cry: `He hath followed a ghost in flight. Let us see the ghost' -- his household fly With lamps to search the night -- So Norsemen's sails run out and try The Sea of the Dark with light. Stout Are Marson, southward whirled From out the tempest's hand, Doth skip the sloping of the world To Huitramannaland, Where Georgia's oaks with moss-beards curled Wave by the shining strand, And sway in sighs from Florida's Spring Or Carolina's Palm -- What time the mocking-bird doth bring The woods his artist's-balm, Singing the Song of Everything Consummate-sweet and calm -- Land of large merciful-hearted skies, Big bounties, rich increase, Green rests for Trade's blood-shotten eyes, For o'er-beat brains surcease, For Love the dear woods' sympathies, For Grief the wise woods' peace, For Need rich givings of hid powers In hills and vales quick-won, For Greed large exemplary flowers That ne'er have toiled nor spun, For Heat fair-tempered winds and showers, For Cold the neighbor sun. Land where the Spirits of June-Heat From out their forest-maze Stray forth at eve with loitering feet, And fervent hymns upraise In bland accord and passion sweet Along the Southern ways: --