The Pilot in the Mist

STEAMING the northern rapids- (an old St. Lawrence reminiscence,

A sudden memory-flash comes back, I know not why,

Here waiting for the sunrise, gazing from this hill;) *001

Again ’tis just at morning- a heavy haze contends with daybreak,

Again the trembling, laboring vessel veers me- I press through

foam-dash’d rocks that almost touch me,

Again I mark where aft the small thin Indian helmsman

Looms in the mist, with brow elate and governing hand.