The poem
Against the groaning mast I stand, The Atlantic surges swell, To bear me from my native land And Zoë's wild farewell.
From billow upon billow hurl'd I can yet hear her say, `And is there nothing in the world Worth one short hour's delay?'
`Alas, my Zoë! were it thus, I should not sail alone, Nor seas nor fates had parted us, But are you all my own?'
Thus were it, never would burst forth My sighs, Heaven knows how true! But, though to me of little worth, The world is much to you.
`Yes,' you shall say, when once the dream (So hard to break!) is o'er, `My love was very dear to him, My fame and peace were more.'