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