Grey drizzling mists the moorlands drape, 
Rain whitens the dead sea, 
From headland dim to sullen cape 
Grey sails creep wearily. 
I know not how that merchantman 
Has found the heart; but 'tis her plan 
Seaward her endless course to shape. 

Unreal as insects that appall 
A drunkard's peevish brain, 
O'er the grey deep the dories crawl, 
Four-legged, with rowers twain: 
Midgets and minims of the earth, 
Across old ocean's vasty girth 
Toiling--heroic, comical! 

I wonder how that merchant's crew 
Have ever found the will! 
I wonder what the fishers do 
To keep them toiling still! 
I wonder how the heart of man 
Has patience to live out its span, 
Or wait until its dreams come true.