My heart is like a ship that finds no rest,
Tossed here and there upon the stormy breast
Of loves of many hearts too oft conferred.
Thy love is like the harbour, safe and still,
Into whose calm that ship may glide at will,
Under the slope of God's Eternal Will.
So near the perfect peace that knows no word;
Yet with an empty, white emotion stirred,
It folds its wings like some contented bird.
At rest, and yet not anchored; and some day
Out of the restful peace of this calm bay
The winds of Fate will drift it far away.
Yesterdays. By Ella Wheeler Wilcox.
London: Gay & Hancock, 1916.
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