Because your strife and labour have been vain,
Ye who have striven, shall I forego, forget
The far-off goal where to my feet were set
In the old days when life was first made plain?
Upward in April, who, meeting with the rain,
Did turn, the first shy mayflowers still are met?
I who have sought, yea, who am seeking yet,
What pain have I like unto your sore pain?
So let me go as one yearning, that braves,
With shipmen that have knowledge of the sea,
The wind disastrous and the ponderous waves
(Because his love dwells in some far countree),
Crying, "Not one of all your million graves
Is deep enough to keep my love from me!"