O phantom bars and futile bands!O fettered feet of clay!O blind unfaith and folded hands!The East is growing grey.
Look up! Hope’s rainbow hangs athwartMore joys than life can hold!O loving heart, O longing heart,The skies are dropping gold!
O heavy heart, O laggard trust,O lips too faint to pray!Tho’ dauntless dust go down to dustYet each shall have his day.
From alien seas no man may chart,From stress of wind and foam,O weary heart, O waiting heart,Your ships are beating home!
Sources, publication & text notesReference details
Canonical recordPOEM-001993
Copy-textPitt — The Horses of the Hills and Other Verses (1911); selected digital copy-text retained exactly; retained page images control manifestation and meaningful layout under D-180/D-208; fresh OCR is alignment-only
While The Billy BoilsSearch