Leagues of blue ocean are between us spread;
  And I cannot behold thee, save in dreams!
  I cannot hear the music round thee shed,
  I do not see the light that from thee gleams.
  Fairest and best! 'mid summer joys, ah, say,
  Dost thou e'er think of one, who thinks of thee---
  Th' Atlantic-wanderer---who, day by day,
  Looks for thy image in the deep, deep sea?
  Long months, and years perchance, may pass away,
  Ere he shall gaze upon thy face again;
  He cannot know what rocks and quicksands lay
  Before him, on the Future's shipless main;
  But, thanked be Memory! there are treasures still,
Which the triumphant mind holds subject to its will.