Explore "As the Crow Flies" by Helen Gray Cone on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
Buccaneer with blackest sails, / Steering home by compass true, / Now that all the rich West pales / From its ingot-hue!
Would that compass in thy breast / Thou couldst lend, for guiding me / Where my Hope hath made her nest -- / In how far a tree!
Swerving not, nor stooping low, / To that dear, that distant mark / Could I undiverted go, / What were coming dark?
-- Careless of the twilight ground, / O'er the wood and o'er the stream / Still he sails, with hollow sound / Strange, as in a dream!