They drift away -- Ah, God! they drift for ever.
. . . . . .
I watch them drift -- the old familiar faces,
Till ghosts, not men, fill old beloved places.
. . . . . .
Shores, landmarks, beacons drift alike.
Yet overhead the boundless arch of heaven
Still fades to night, still blazes into day.
Ah, God! My God! Thou wilt not drift away!

A Fragment. 1867.