Page:Songs of the Road Doyle.djvu/120



Breathing the stale and stuffy air

Of office or consulting room,

Our thoughts will wander back to where

We heard the low Atlantic boom,

And, creaming underneath our screw,

We watched the swirling waters break,

Silver filagrees on blue

Spreading fan-wise in our wake.

Cribbed within the city's fold,

Fettered to our daily round,

We'll conjure up the haze of gold

Which ringed the wide horizon round.