Across Seas, 1

I, toiling here through many weary days,
Turn from the extreme bitterness of pain,
As turns a journeying sailor from the main.
In middle sea to rest, a little space.
On some soft island where his hands may raise
'Twixt land and sea a rough and rocky fane,
Whereat his God to worship, ere again
Unto the stormy waves he sets his face.

So, ere I pass, a little yet I turn,
And raise, apart from all, to thee a shrine.
And render homage in these trembling lays.
Which, could they higher rise, and clearer burn.
Might reach a little from my soul to thine.
Not past man's worship, but beyond man's praise.