To eastward ringing, to westward winging, o’er mapless miles of sea,
On winds and tides the gospel rides that the furthermost isles are free,
And the furthermost isles make answer, harbor, and height, and hill,
Breaker and beach cry each to each, “’T is the Mother who calls! Be still!”
Mother! new-found, beloved, and strong to hold from harm,
Stretching...