SHIP OF DREAMS
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.
