Twohundredfortyone

Before my drift-wood fire I sit,

   And see, with every waif I burn,

Old dreams and fancies coloring it,

   And folly’s unlaid ghosts return.

O ships of mine, whose swift keels cleft

   The enchanted sea on which they sailed,

Are these poor fragments only left

   Of vain desires and hopes that failed?

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER