We are the only royal line. When our sweet fields I wander by To see what strangers occupy. My thirst is bitter and unslaked. Never a night such changes brought. Each morn is New Year's morn come true, Morn of a festival to keep.
All smiles forsook The brook's white face.
I go to wed the sea. I know not if my love would curse or bless thee. All stately set with spar and brace and rope, The Fir-Tree stood and sailed and sailed. Lost in a night, and no man left to tell, Crushed in the giant iceberg's play, The ship went down without a song, a knell. Helen Hunt Jackson Poets' Corner .