TREASURE-SHIPS
317
The blood of a thousand vines;
The cotton's drifted snow;
The fragrant heart of the precious woods
That deep in the tropics grow;
The strength of the giant hills;
The might of the iron ore;
The golden corn, and the yellow wheat
From earth's broad threshing-floor.
The cotton's drifted snow;
The fragrant heart of the precious woods
That deep in the tropics grow;
The strength of the giant hills;
The might of the iron ore;
The golden corn, and the yellow wheat
From earth's broad threshing-floor.
Yet, O ye beautiful ships!
There are ships that come not back,
With flying pennant and swelling sail,
Over yon shining track!
Who can reckon their precious stores,
Or measure the might have been?
Who can tell what they held for us—
The ships that will ne'er come in?
There are ships that come not back,
With flying pennant and swelling sail,
Over yon shining track!
Who can reckon their precious stores,
Or measure the might have been?
Who can tell what they held for us—
The ships that will ne'er come in?
