WHEN western winds are blowing soft
Across the Island Sound ;
When every sail that draws aloft
Is swollen true and round ;
When yellow shores along the lee
Slope upward to the sky ;
When opal bright the land and sea
In changeful contact lie ;
When idle yacht sat anchor swim
Above a phantom shape ;
When spires of canvas dot the rim
Which curves from cape to cape ;
When sea-weed strewn the ebbing tide
Pours eastward to the main ;
When clumsy coasters side by side
Tack in and out again—
When such a day is mine to live,
What has the world beyond to give?