Sound the deep waters:--
        Who shall sound that deep?--
Too short the plummet,
        And the watchmen sleep.
Some dream of effort
        Up a toilsome steep;
Some dream of pasture grounds
        For harmless sheep.

White shapes flit to and fro
        From mast to mast;
They feel the distant tempest
        That nears them fast:
Great rocks are straight ahead,
        Great shoals not past;
They shout to one another
        Upon the blast.

O, soft the streams drop music
        Between the hills,
And musical the birds' nests
        Beside those rills:
The nests are types of home
        Love-hidden from ills,
The nests are types of spirits
        Love-music fills.
So dream the sleepers,
        Each man in his place;
The lightning shows the smile
        Upon each face:
The ship is driving, driving,
        It drives apace:
And sleepers smile, and spirits
        Bewail their case.

The lightning glares and reddens
        Across the skies;
It seems but sunset
        To those sleeping eyes.
When did the sun go down
        On such a wise?
From such a sunset
        When shall day arise?

"Wake," call the spirits:
        But to heedless ears;
They have forgotten sorrows
        And hopes and fears;
They have forgotten perils
        And smiles and tears;
Their dream has held them long,
        Long years and years.
"Wake," call the spirits again:
        But it would take
A louder summons
        To bid them awake.
Some dream of pleasure
        For another's sake;
Some dream, forgetful
        Of a lifelong ache.

One by one slowly,
        Ah, how sad and slow!
Wailing and praying
        The spirits rise and go:
Clear stainless spirits,
        White,--as white as snow;
Pale spirits, wailing
        For an overthrow.

One by one flitting,
        Like a mournful bird
Whose song is tired at last
        For no mate heard.
The loving voice is silent,
        The useless word;
One by one flitting,
        Sick with hope deferred.
Driving and driving,
        The ship drives amain:
While swift from mast to mast
        Shapes flit again,
Flit silent as the silence
        Where men lie slain;
Their shadow cast upon the sails
        Is like a stain.

No voice to call the sleepers,
        No hand to raise:
They sleep to death in dreaming
        Of length of days.
Vanity of vanities,
        The Preacher says:
Vanity is the end
        Of all their ways.