Poems (Cook)/This is the Hour for me

by Eliza Cook

THIS IS THE HOUR FOR ME.

I'll sail upon the mighty main—but this is not the hour;
There's not enough of wind to move the bloom in lady's bower:
Oh! this is ne'er the time for me: our pretty bark would take
Her place upon the ocean like a rose-leaf on a lake.
There's not a murmur on the ear, no shade to meet the eye;
The ripple sleeps; the sun is up, all cloudless in the sky:
I do not like the gentle calm of such a torpid sea;
I will not greet the glassy sheet—'tis not the hour for me.

Now, now, the night-breeze freshens fast, the green waves gather strength;
The heavy mainsail firmly swells, the pennon shows its length;
Our boat is jumping in the tide-quick, let her hawser slip:
Though but a tiny thing, she'll live beside a giant ship.
Away, away! what nectar spray she flings about her bow;
What diamonds flash in every splash that drips upon my brow,—
She knows she bears a soul that dares and loves the dark rough sea:
More sail I cry; let, let her fly—this is the hour for me.