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Mrs. Caroline F. Orne.
Out upon the swelling wave
Sweeping onward toward the shore,
Lies and swings a tiny boat
But with neither sail nor oar.
If I were in that little boat
I would not lie and rock and float
Up and down, from side to side,
Rolling with the rolling tide.

Far away the glimmering light
Underneath the horizon line
With its faint mysterious shine,
And its wavering, dark and bright,
Luring from the quiet shore
Would draw me, draw me ever thither,
Till I learned the mystery
Of the white-winged ships and whither
O'er the wide, far-reaching sea,
Their bold pinions bear them free;
Till those strange, rich lands I found,
Whence the mariners brown and old
Bring the treasures of the East,
Bring the spices, pearls and gold,
From the earth's remotest bound.

Up and down, from side to side,
Rolling with the rolling tide,
Lies and rocks the little boat
And I watch it rock and float,
As I lie and idly dream
Of a world beyond the sea,
And a voyage that cannot be;
Till half unto myself I seem
That I am but a freightless boat
On a tossing sea afloat,
Without a sail, without an oar,
To bear me from the fruitless shore.

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