The Fog
On sad, slow waves, like the mounds of graves, the fisher- men's dories drift.
For the fishing-craft that leapt and laughed are swallowed in ghostly gray :
Only God's eyes may see where lies the lap of the sheltered bay,
So their dories grope, for lost their lore, witlessly to and fro,
When the fog slinks down from Labrador, stealthy, sure, and slow !
Oh, men of the fleet, 't is ye who learn, of the white fog's
biting breath, That life may hang on the way ye turn, or the way ye turn
be death ! Though they on the lea look out to sea for the woe or the
weal of you, The ominous East, like a hungry beast, is waiting your
tidings, too. A night and a day, mayhap, ye stray ; a day and a night,
perchance, The dory is led toward Marblehead, or pointed away for
France ;
