Wharfside Reverie.

The harbour swell sucks lazily among the sea-mossed piles,
And mirrors, O! how crazily, stained hulls and smoke-dim'd tiles.
White liners swing at moorings, dark tramp to wharfside clings,
At rest from world-wide tourings; gulls dip, make shining rings.
A chain of ports life flickers on, and, as with ships at sea,
Men meet and greet, careen, are gone, to windward or to lee.
Some find calm days and tread white decks,
where sun-etched cordage plays.
And others gales, aye, woe and wrecks; go their eternal ways.
Far ports seem sweet to battered ships that buffet storm and foam,
On long and lonely ocean trips, the crews' thoughts winging home.
O'er decks awash taut rigging sings, shrill birds midge sleety skies,
The torn grey waste in anger flings its spume in red-rim'd eyes.
Yet down below the watch asleep in dreams that rest the mind,
Heed not the thudding chilly deep nor hear the screaming wind.
For they are now in Slumber Sound where catspaws lull and die,
Their souls are now Nirvana drowned, the din, mere lullaby.
But peace ashore is vainly sought without the honest mind.
It may be neither sold nor bought, yet may be your's to find.
A man's mind is like history, selects what to admit,
Thus makes its own mad mystery, then thinks bleak thoughts that fit.
This age of ours when mind may dare may change the point of view,
Make crimes of what mean virtues were, and cherish virtues new.
Success may not mean jewels rare, the holders' souls in pawn,
But men's homes free of weary care and eager for each dawn.

—Pescador.