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and torn, the white sea-laces

Broider the breast of the Indian Deep:

Lifted aloft the strong screw races

To slacken and strain in the waves which leap:

The great sails swell: the broad bows shiver

To green and silver the purple sea;

And, down from the sunset, a dancing river

Flows, broken gold, where our ship goes free.

Too free! too fast! With memories laden

I gaze to the northward where lies Japan:

Oh, fair and pleasant, and soft-voiced maiden!

You are there, too distant! O Yoshi San!

You are under those clouds by the storm-winds shaken,

A thousand ri, as the sea-gull flies,