Beyond the yards the water sings
To covered frame and lowered mast
Where yachts like birds with folded wings
Are waiting til the storms are past;
Are waiting for the winter days
To turn to suns of spring again
When they will follow lovely ways
By misty loch and mountain chain.
The green tide with its silver tongue
Tells tempting tales of foam and breeze
And islands old as ever young
Lying in lonely hollow seas.
Even the pebbles on the shore
Shout to the painted wooden host
To lay aside their dreams once more
And race the winds from coast to coast.