Drift, let it drift; the cords are snapped that curbed it;
The rigid anchor holds that bark no more;
Th' impatient sails whose fluttering so disturbed it
No longer flap beside the sombre shore.
Out of the haven, 'thwart the roadstead gleaming,
Beyond the far bright offing hath it passed;
Still of some golden goal a-dreaming, dreaming,
O'er the wide deep that light bark drifts at last.

Let it drift on, nor blast nor billow checking;
No whirlpool to engulf, no rock to break;
The sea a mirror smooth for its bedecking,
The sky a blue pavilion for its sake.
On let it drift, the laughing mermaids weaving
Fantastic rings its devious course around;
And the gay syrens mocking its believing
With sweet, delusive ecstasies of sound.

Yet bright skies change; Hope's refluent tides run widely,
And Fortune wrecks great wonders with her wand.
So on some wintry eve, while I am idly
Counting the dusk waves on the sombre strand,
Haply before me from the offing shaded
A helmless bark shall drift in shattered state,
Its golden name, "The Mary," blurred and faded,
Tangle and bitter brine its only freight.