Poetry.
HOMEWARD - BOUND. (COXTKIBUTEU.) Low writer on the bar this morning, friend — The boats lie rocking on the swell outside ; The salt weeds glisten in the early sun— Through their wot wreaths the rippling channels run Across the dull brown flats —low tide, low tide. The ebb sels in, and slowly up the bay The fishers’ boats come homeward to the town, While, all unseen, moves one amongst them now— A shadowy steersman silent at the prow, And as it nears the shore the wind goes down There are wrecks along our coast-line, old and new; Their spars lie bleaching in the shifting sand; Yo barque that trusted to this Pilot’s care, However frail, has suffered shipwreck there, Yor drifted helpless to an unknown land. The boats swing safely by the grey old piles, The bar gleams white along its line of foam, Out to a tideless sea two spirits glide— The Pilot guides another at his side, A tired voyager returning Home.
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https://paperspast.natlib.govt.nz/newspapers/SOCR18940217.2.25
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Southern Cross, Volume 1, Issue 47, 17 February 1894, Page 10
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163Poetry. Southern Cross, Volume 1, Issue 47, 17 February 1894, Page 10
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