Qua Cursum Ventus

Arthur Hugh Clough (1819–1861)

AS ships, becalmed at eve, that lay

With canvas drooping, side by side,

Two towers of sail at dawn of day

Are scarce long leagues apart descried.

When fell the night, up sprang the breeze,

And all the darkling hours they plied,

Nor dreamt but each the selfsame seas

By each was cleaving, side by side:

E’en so,—but why the tale reveal

Of those whom, year by year unchanged,

Brief absence joined anew to feel,

Astounded, soul from soul estranged?

At dead of night their sails were filled,

And onward each rejoicing steered;—

Ah! neither blame, for neither willed

Or wist what first with dawn appeared.

To veer, how vain! On, onward strain,

Brave barks! In light, in darkness too,

Through winds and tides one compass guides;

To that and your own selves be true.

But O blithe breeze! and O great seas!

Though ne’er, that earliest parting past,

On your wide plain they join again,—

Together lead them home at last.

One port, methought, alike they sought,—

One purpose hold where’er they fare;

O bounding breeze, O rushing seas,

At last, at last, unite them there!