What are the days but islands,
So many little islands,
And sleep the sea of silence,
That flows about them all?
There when the moon is risen
The peaceful waters glisten;
But yonder flashing--listen!
How deep their plummets fall!
The little boats are skimming,
The wind-led boats are skimming,
Each in its silver rimming,
Apart from fleet and shore;
There not an oar is dipping;
With just a cable's slipping,
Glides out the phantom shipping
That wanders evermore.
How many are the islands,
The teeming, talking islands,
That in the sea of silence
The rowing vessels find?
Their number no man knoweth,
Their way the current showeth;
The tide returnless floweth
As each is left behind.
The sailors long to tarry
For rest they long to tarry
When at some isle of fancy
They touch and go ashore;
With songs of wistful pleading
They follow fate unheeding,
And with the tide's receding
Are drifting as before.
But sometime in the sailing,
The blind and endless sailing,
They pass beyond the hailing
Of land upon the lee--
The lowlands and the highlands--
And all beyond the islands
Behold the sea of silence,
Behold the great white sea!
