They gather in the morning and at noon,
Soft, billowy masses high above my head,
Like argosies with thrilling sails outspread,
Bound for a port beyond the sun and moon.
They never anchor in the blue lagoon
Of heaven, but move their fragile keels instead,
Faring to regions where the happy dead
Await their cargoes, bright with bliss of June.

Some clean, white morning I shall thus abide
Upon the wharves that touch Eternity,
Watching those sails on Time's unending tide,
Waiting those dream-ships on the blowing sea.
And one I love on that last ship may ride,
And I shall hail her, coming home to me.