The Pacific Willie Dunn

When gliding by the Bashee isles
We emerged at last
Upon the great South Sea
Were it not for other things
I could have greeted my dear Pacific with uncounted thanks
For now the long supplication of my youth was answered
That serene ocean rolled eastwards
From me a thousand leagues of blue

There is, one knows not what sweet mystery about this sea Whose gently awful stirrings seems to speak of some hidden soul beneath
Like those fabled undulations
Of the Ephesian sod
Over the buried Evangelist St. John
And meet it is
That over these sea-pastures
Wide-rolling watery prairies and Potters' Fields
Of all four continents, the waves should rise
And fall
And ebb
And flow
Unceasingly
For here, millions of mixed shades and shadows
Drowned dreams, somnambulisms, reveries
All that we call lives and souls, lie dreaming
Dreaming, still
Tossing like slumberers in their beds
The ever-rolling waves but made so by their restlessness