AN April day, and a salt breeze blowing
Leaving the taste of brine on the lip,
Round the Battery waters flowing
As if New York were a clipper-ship; -

A mighty freighted vessel sailing
Away to some vast and perilous dream
With a thousand mastheads flaunting, trailing
Beautiful banners of smoke and steam.

Wayne at his office window, chinking
Keys in his pocket, staring away
Over the windy harbour, thinking:
"What am I doing? Why do I stay?

"I who have earned the right to leisure,
Why do I work like a galley slave?
Work without risk or need or pleasure. . .
What a goddam silly way to behave!

"Why am I not at this moment flying
Before this gale on a leeward reach
Or digging for buried gold, or lying
By a warm blue sea on a hot white beach?

"Time enough when my hair is graying,
Time enough when my back is bent.
And at this an office-boy entered, saying:
"A lady to see you, Sir, - Mrs. Kent."