Our white-winged ship is sailing, sailing
Into the mild sea-calm of the past;
And the twilight stars are flashing, paling,
And the oars of memory sweetly trailing
Into the mist-blown vast.

By how many magic isles do we wander
Back on this unforgotten sea?
By how many shores do we wait and ponder?
And still the old faces grow fonder, fonder—
The faces that need to be.

O ship, may you ever be ready for sailing
Again to this mystical marvelous foam;
For the odorous winds, they will blow—never failing—
And the old and the good will prove all-availing
To anchor you safe at home.