Departure
While the far farewell music thins and fails,And the broad bottoms rip the bearing brine—All smalling slowly to the gray sea line—And each significant red smoke-shaft pales,
Keen sense of severance everywhere prevails,Which shapes the late long tramp of mounting menTo seeming words that ask and ask again:“How long, O striving Teutons, Slavs, and GaelsMust your wroth reasonings trade on lives like these,That are as puppets in a playing hand?—When shall the saner softer politiesWhereof we dream, have play in each proud land,And patriotism, grown Godlike, scorn to standBondslave to realms, but circle earth and seas?”
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