Darling, we count your eighteen years,-- Fifteen in Heaven, on earth but three,-- And try to frame you grown and wise: But all in vain; there still appears Only the child you used to be, Our baby with the violet eyes. OUTWARD BOUND, A grievous day of wrathful winds, Of low-hung clouds, which scud and fly, And drop cold rains, then lift and show A sullen realm of upper sky. The sea is black as night; it roars From lips afoam with cruel spray, Like some fierce, many-throated pack Of wolves, which scents and chases prey. Crouched in my little wind-swept nook, I hear the menacing voices call, And shudder, as above the deck Topples and swings the weltering wall. It seems a vast and restless grave, Insatiate, hungry, beckoning With dreadful gesture of command To every free and living thing. "O Lord," I cry, "Thou makest life And hope and all sweet things to be; Rebuke this hovering, following Death,-- This horror never born of Thee." A sudden gleam, the waves light up With radiant momentary hues,-- Amber and shadowy pearl and gold, Opal and green and unknown blues,-- And, rising on the tossing walls, Within the foaming valleys swung, Soft shapes of sea-birds, dimly seen, Flutter and float and call their young, A moment; then the lowering clouds Settle anew above the main, The colors die, the waves rise higher, And night and terror rule again. No more I see the small, dim shapes, So unafraid of wind and wave, Nestling beneath the tempest's roar, Cradled in what I deemed a grave. But all night long I lay and smiled At thought of those soft folded wings, And trusting, with the trustful birds, In Him who cares for smallest things. FROM EAST TO WEST. The boat cast loose her moorings; "Good-by" was all we said. "Good-by, Old World," we said with a smile, And never looked back as we sped, A shining wake of foam behind, To the heart of the sunset red. Heavily drove our plunging keel The warring waves between; Heavily strove we night and day, Against the west-wind keen, Bent, like a foe, to bar our path,-- A foe with an awful mien. Never a token met our eyes From the dear land far away; No storm-swept bird, no drifting branch, To tell us where it lay. Wearily searched we, hour by hour, Through the mist and the driving spray, Till, all in a flashing moment, The fog-veils rent and flew, And a blithesome south-wind caught the sails And whistled the cordage through, And the stars swung low their silver lamps In a dome of airy blue, And, breathed from unseen distances, A new and joyous air Caressed our senses suddenly With a rapture fresh and rare. "It is the breath of home!" we cried; "We feel that we are there."