The little ships, the phantom ships,

Mere films of cloudy air

Go gliding past through light and shade,

Through gleams and lustres rare;

Or where the moonbeam’s silver path

Sheds glory o’er the sea,

Or where the sunbeam’s splendour

Rests in its majesty.

The little ships, the phantom ships,

Mere tiny films of gray.

Go sailing, sailing, past the cliffs,

And past the frothing bay.

Are they from East or from the West?

From Turkey or from Spain?

Or but the shadows of dream-ships

Gliding across my brain?

Those phantom ships, the phantom ships.

With sailing wings spread gray.

Flaunt forth no crimson pennons

In chivalrous display;

Steer down the channel, past the shoal.

With no rejoicing cheer,

With no resounding cannon.

Nor fire-flash glancing clear.

Those phantom ships are like the hopes

Of days long since rolled by;

O’er dreamland seas they glide along,

Their gray sails mounting high.

Glide on — glide on! ye shadowy fleet,

And bear your dead away.

Past glistening sands and rampart cliffs,

And little frothing bay.