Always your bright face above me
    Through the dreams of boyhood shone;
    Now far alien countries call me
    With the ships of gray St. John.

    Swing, you tides, up out of Fundy! 
    Blow, you white fogs, in from sea! 
    I was born to be your fellow;
    You were bred to pilot me.

    At the touch of your strong fingers,
    Doubt, the derelict, is gone;
    Sane and glad I clear the headland
    With the white ships of St. John.

    Loyalists, my fathers, builded
    This gray port of the gray sea,
    When the duty to ideals
    Could not let well-being be.

    When the breadth of scarlet bunting
    Puts the wreath of maple on,
    I must cheer too,—­slip my moorings
    With the ships of gray St. John.

    Peerless-hearted port of heroes,
    Be a word to lift the world,
    Till the many see the signal
    Of the few once more unfurled.

    Past the lighthouse, past the nunbuoy,
    Past the crimson rising sun,
    There are dreams go down the harbor
    With the tall ships of St. John.

    In the morning I am with them
    As they clear the island bar,—­
    Fade, till speck by speck the midday
    Has forgotten where they are.

    But I sight a vaster sea-line,
    Wider lee-way, longer run,
    Whose discoverers return not
    With the ships of gray St. John.

THE KING OF YS

    Wild across the Breton country,
    Fabled centuries ago,
    Riding from the black sea border,
    Came the squadrons of the snow.

    Piping dread at every latch-hole,
    Moaning death at every sill,
    The white Yule came down in vengeance
    Upon Ys, and had its will.

    Walled and dreamy stood the city,
    Wide and dazzling shone the sea,
    When the gods set hand to smother
    Ys, the pride of Brittany.

    Morning drenched her towers in purple;
    Light of heart were king and fool;
    Fair forebode the merrymaking
    Of the seven days of Yule.

    Laughed the king, “Once more, my mistress,
    Time and place and joy are one!”
    Bade the balconies with banners
    Match the splendor of the sun;

    Eyes of urchins shine with silver,
    And with gold the pavement ring;
    Bade the war-horns sound their bravest
    In The Mistress of the King.

    Mountebanks and ballad-mongers
    And all strolling traffickers
    Should block up the market corners
    With none other name than hers.

    Laughed the fool, “To-day, my Folly,
    Thou shalt be the king of Ys!”
    O wise fool!  How long must wisdom
    Under motley hold her peace?

    Then the storm came down.  The valleys
    Wailed and ciphered to the dune
    Like huge organ pipes; a midnight
    Stalked those gala streets at noon;