To make it ride

So high and manifold and so complete.

This is the engine-beat

Of life itself, the ship of ships.

There is no other ship among the stars than this.

The wind of death is a bright kiss

Upon the lips

Of every immigrant, as upon yours and mine—

Theirs is the stinging brine

And sun and open sea,

And theirs the arching sky, eternity.”

And Celia had my homage. I was wrong.

Immigrants all, one ship we ride,

Man and his bride

The journey through.

O let it be with a bridal-song!...

“My shipmates are as many as eternity is long:

The unborn and the living and the dead—

And, Celia, you!”

III

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