Page:Garth, able seaman (IA garthableseaman00pric).pdf/20



There never grew the tall oak That fashioned her stately beam, Save in the forest of faerie, Under the hills of dream.

Her sails are spun of phosphor, Weft of the Pleiads' shine, And she gleams like a mountain of moonlight From her truck to her water-line.

But only one may see her, And only one may know The thrill of her perfect answer, When the scented trade-winds blow.

Under the high poop lantern, Silent I see him stand, With his steady eyes on the sea-line And the wheel beneath his hand.

And over the tilt of her moon-sail There hangs one mystic star, Pointing her down to the waters Where the Wonderful Islands are.