From The Building of the Ship
Like unto ships
far off at sea,
Outward or homeward
bound, are we.
Before, behind, and
all around,
Floats and swings the
horizon's bound,
Seems at its distant
rim to rise
And climb the crystal
wall of the skies,
And then again to turn
and sink,
As if we could slide
from its outer brink.
Ah! it is not the sea,
It is not the sea that
sinks and shelves,
But ourselves
That rock and rise
With endless and
uneasy motion,
Now touching the very
skies,
Now sinking into the depths of ocean.
Ah! if our souls but poise and swing
Like the compass in its brazen ring,
Ever level and ever true
To the toil and the task we have to do,
We shall sail securely, and safely reach
The Fortunate Isles, on whose shining beach
The sights we see, and the sounds we hear,
Will be those of joy and not of fear!
— Henry Wadsworth
Longfellow (1807-1882)