The mast Hangs Aft
The Mast hangs aft; we lower our Top-sails.
seeking a birth, aptly captain conns the ship
the vessel bears under the course, furls on trail,
we strike the flag, pull it down upon the cup;
The helm is 'hard a weather', we stow the hold,
the mizzen 's abaft, we gaze land in niep tides,
seaward to the land, course offing and bold.
ship rides a thwart, then betwixt wind and tide.
Ebony trees. Darkened vastness, we abreast,
quarter winds in favor, we lay the quoil on shore.
A whisper rides overset, cold spell's obverse,
sudden of darkness fell, time dissembled yore.
In mist we hear a hymn, icy cords of tensed lyre
numb we launch hoe, maids beseeched, beg;
unintelligibly, our minds freeze, at sound eerie;
accordment passive, and offing, fore to clegg.
They stare within, I shudder, a deaden bind,
deprived; my soul gripes, she smiles - her song,
my defense is veering, and I adore her grind,
I feel the sea's slow caress; forever I die along.
poem by Giorgio Veneto
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Related quotes
The mast hangs fore
The mast hangs fore, so we bear with the land,
searching a birth; I check at the the binnacle,
and boards her up; Ease the helm, bear up-cond,
Pervasive Euclidean theorems, and the pentacle.
Voices echo from the land, in acerbic acrimony,
Angels' hymns soothing sound to slowly sharpen
biting vibes in the gusts consented disharmony,
respectfully strike the Flag, Hail to mishappen.
Accented voices, still so pleasant, effectual;
Comely draw in foggy forms, eerie on distance,
invulnerable were we, to bewitched end unequal;
threatening darkness favored fog's outdistance;
Airy she fares, inside the gust, devilish wind,
to eliminate my vacancy, so I fear, to be alive,
maybe she will vanish, aphotic dame in dark lint,
in roads adept, without her dusky aura connive!
Askance 's the wind, to attenuate, blows of Omen,
trivially amid the masts, he whistles a trifle,
upon the thwart standing aloft, indebted Yeoman,
of her virtuous glance, bedizened, airy skiffle.
She smiles deplorably in clouds immoral, dreadful,
redemptive just to kiss my lips, nifty, angelic,
aerial of nothingness to enliven but so hurtful,
in darkish scents, me to abnegate in Hades relic.
poem by Giorgio Veneto
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The Auster Blows
Above the pilot cutter I hoe, to strike amain
of her I think - sea gulls aloft
our ship is land-locked enters the port again
th' Auster blows ever soft.
my lady in memory, a perty thing to chase
I board her up, on soul's edge
her kind smile cuns the pilot, aptly to trace
in sea-waters known to allege.
Christmas 's close, bells, boat keeps 'er luff,
she goes steady on same point
I recall a tear and a scarf, and then a laugh,
winter 't was, with the anoint.
Ship sails steady, bears up, and quartening,
fore course, she goes lasking in fog
my peppermint's on the moors, ship's driving
be end to end, for that egg-nog.
I kiss her face, as she expected, was me afore,
she 's my Christmas strike of truth,
I pick her up, she laughs, eyes shine to ore,
and a sweet kiss I offer on her tooth.
poem by Giorgio Veneto
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Farewell To Florida
I
Go on, high ship, since now, upon the shore,
The snake has left its skin upon the floor.
Key West sank downward under massive clouds
And silvers and greens spread over the sea. The moon
Is at the mast-head and the past is dead.
Her mind will never speak to me again.
I am free. High above the mast the moon
Rides clear of her mind and the waves make a refrain
Of this: that the snake has shed its skin upon
The floor. Go on through the darkness. The waves fly back
II
Her mind had bound me round. The palms were hot
As if I lived in ashen ground, as if
The leaves in which the wind kept up its sound
From my North of cold whistled in a sepulchral South,
Her South of pine and coral and coraline sea,
Her home, not mine, in the ever-freshened Keys,
Her days, her oceanic nights, calling
For music, for whisperings from the reefs.
How content I shall be in the North to which I sail
And to feel sure and to forget the bleaching sand ...
III
I hated the weathery yawl from which the pools
Disclosed the sea floor and the wilderness
Of waving weeds. I hated the vivid blooms
Curled over the shadowless hut, the rust and bones,
The trees likes bones and the leaves half sand, half sun.
To stand here on the deck in the dark and say
Farewell and to know that that land is forever gone
And that she will not follow in any word
Or look, nor ever again in thought, except
That I loved her once ... Farewell. Go on, high ship.
IV
My North is leafless and lies in a wintry slime
Both of men and clouds, a slime of men in crowds.
The men are moving as the water moves,
This darkened water cloven by sullen swells
Against your sides, then shoving and slithering,
The darkness shattered, turbulent with foam.
To be free again, to return to the violent mind
That is their mind, these men, and that will bind
Me round, carry me, misty deck, carry me
To the cold, go on, high ship, go on, plunge on.
poem by Wallace Stevens
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O Captain! My Captain!
O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,
The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won,
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills,
For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding,
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head!
It is some dream that on the deck,
You’ve fallen cold and dead.
My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,
The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;
Exult O shores, and ring O bells!
But I with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
poem by Walt Whitman
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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The Dead Ship Of Harpswell
What flecks the outer gray beyond
The sundown's golden trail?
The white flash of a sea-bird's wing,
Or gleam of slanting sail?
Let young eyes watch from Neck and Point,
And sea-worn elders pray,--
The ghost of what was once a ship
Is sailing up the bay.
From gray sea-fog, from icy drift,
From peril and from pain,
The home-bound fisher greets thy lights,
O hundred-harbored Maine!
But many a keel shall seaward turn,
And many a sail outstand,
When, tall and white, the Dead Ship looms
Against the dusk of land.
She rounds the headland's bristling pines;
She threads the isle-set bay;
No spur of breeze can speed her on,
Nor ebb of tide delay.
Old men still walk the Isle of Orr
Who tell her date and name,
Old shipwrights sit in Freeport yards
Who hewed her oaken frame.
What weary doom of baffled quest,
Thou sad sea-ghost, is thine?
What makes thee in the haunts of home
A wonder and a sign?
No foot is on thy silent deck,
Upon thy helm no hand;
No ripple hath the soundless wind
That smites thee from the land!
For never comes the ship to port,
Howe'er the breeze may be;
Just when she nears the waiting shore
She drifts again to sea.
No tack of sail, nor turn of helm,
Nor sheer of veering side;
Stern-fore she drives to sea and night,
Against the wind and tide.
In vain o'er Harpswell Neck the star
Of evening guides her in;
In vain for her the lamps are lit
Within thy tower, Seguin!
In vain the harbor-boat shall hail,
In vain the pilot call;
No hand shall reef her spectral sail,
Or let her anchor fall.
Shake, brown old wives, with dreary joy,
Your gray-head hints of ill;
And, over sick-beds whispering low,
Your prophecies fulfil.
Some home amid yon birchen trees
Shall drape its door with woe;
And slowly where the Dead Ship sails,
The burial boat shall row!
From Wolf Neck and from Flying Point,
From island and from main,
From sheltered cove and tided creek,
Shall glide the funeral train.
The dead-boat with the bearers four,
The mourners at her stern,--
And one shall go the silent way
Who shall no more return!
And men shall sigh, and women weep,
Whose dear ones pale and pine,
And sadly over sunset seas
Await the ghostly sign.
They know not that its sails are filled
By pity's tender breath,
Nor see the Angel at the helm
Who steers the Ship of Death!
. . . . .
'Chill as a down-east breeze should be,'
The Book-man said. 'A ghostly touch
The legend has. I'm glad to see
Your flying Yankee beat the Dutch.'
'Well, here is something of the sort
Which one midsummer day I caught
In Narragansett Bay, for lack of fish.'
'We wait,' the Traveller said;
'serve hot or cold your dish.'
poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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My Ship and I
O it's I that am the captain of a tidy little ship,
Of a ship that goes a sailing on the pond;
And my ship it keeps a-turning all around and all about;
But when I'm a little older, I shall find the secret out
How to send my vessel sailing on beyond.
For I mean to grow a little as the dolly at the helm,
And the dolly I intend to come alive;
And with him beside to help me, it's a-sailing I shall go,
It's a-sailing on the water, when the jolly breezes blow
And the vessel goes a dive-dive-dive.
O it's then you'll see me sailing through the rushes and the reeds,
And you'll hear the water singing at the prow;
For beside the dolly sailor, I'm to voyage and explore,
To land upon the island where no dolly was before,
And to fire the penny cannon in the bow.
poem by Robert Louis Stevenson
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The Long Trail
There's a whisper down the field where the year has shot her yield,
And the ricks stand grey to the sun,
Singing: "Over then, come over, for the bee has quit the dover,
"And your English summer's done."
You have heard the beat of the off-shore wind,
And the thresh of the deep-sea rain;
You have heard the song -- how long? how long?
Pull out on the trail again!
Ha' done with the Tents of Shem, dear lass,
We've seen the seasons through,
And it's time to turn the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,
Pull out, pull out, on the Long Trail-the trail that is always new!
It's North you may run to the rime-ringed sun
Or South to the blind Hom's hate;
Or East all the way into Mississippi Bay,
Or West to the Golden Gate --
Where the blindest bluffs hold good, dear lass,
And the wildest tales are true,
And the men bulk big on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,
And life runs large on the Long Trail -- the trail that is always new.
The days are sick and cold, and the skies are grey and old
And the twice-breathed airs blow damp;
And I'd sell my tired soul for the bucking beam-sea roll
Of a black Bilbao tramp,
With her load-line over her hatch, dear lass,
And a drunken Dago crew,
And her nose held down on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail
From Cadiz south on the Long Trail-the trail that is always new.
There be triple ways to take, of the eagle or the snake,
Or the way of a man with a maid;
But the sweetest way to me is a ship's upon the sea
In the heel of the North-East Trade.
Can you hear the crash on her brows, dear lass.
And the drum of the racing screw,
As she ships it green on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,
As she lifts and 'scends on the Long Trail -- the trail that is always new?
See the shaking funnels roar, with the Peter at the fore,
And the fenders grind and heave,
And the derricks clack and grate, as the tackle hooks the crate,
And the fall-rope whines through the sheave;
It's "Gang-plank up and in," dear lass,
It's "Hawsers warp her through!"
And it's "All clear aft" on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,
We're backing down on the Long Trail -- the trail that is always new.
O the mutter overside, when the port-fog holds us tied,
And the sirens hoot their dread,
When foot by foot we creep o'er the hueless, viewless deep
To the sob of the questing lead!
It's down by the Lower Hope, dear lass,
With the Grinfleet Sands in view,
Till the Mouse swings green on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,
And the Gull Light lifts on the Long Trail -- the trail that is always new.
O the blazing tropic night, when the wake's a welt of light
That holds the hot sky tame,
And the steady fore-foot snores through the planet-powdered floors
Where the scared whale flukes in flame!
Her plates are flaked by the sun, dear lass
And her ropes are taut with the dew,
For we're booming down on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,
We're sagging south on the Long Trail -- the trail that is always new.
Then home, get her home, where the drunken rollers comb,
And the shouting seas drive by,
And the engines stamp and ring, and the wet bows reel and swing,
And the Southern Cross rides high!
Yes, the old lost stars wheel back, dear lass,
That blaze in the velvet blue.
They're all old friends on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,
They're God's own guides on the Long Trail -- the trail that is always new.
Fly forward, O my heart, from the Foreland to the Start
We're steaming all too slow,
And it's twenty thousand mile to our little lazy isle
Where the trumpet-orchids blow!
You have heard the call of the off-shore wind
And the voice of the deep-sea rain;
You have heard the song-how long? how long?
Pull out on the trail again!
The Lord knows what we may find, dear lass,
And The Deuce knows we may do
But we're back once more on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,
We're down, hull-down, on the Long Trail -- the trail that is always new!
poem by Rudyard Kipling
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L'envoi
There's a whisper down the field where the year has shot her yield,
And the ricks stand gray to the sun,
Singing: -- "Over then, come over, for the bee has quit the clover,
And your English summer's done."
You have heard the beat of the off-shore wind,
And the thresh of the deep-sea rain;
You have heard the song -- how long! how long?
Pull out on the trail again!
Ha' done with the Tents of Shem, dear lass,
We've seen the seasons through,
And it's time to turn on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,
Pull out, pull out, on the Long Trail -- the trail that is always new.
It's North you may run to the rime-ringed sun,
Or South to the blind Horn's hate;
Or East all the way into Mississippi Bay,
Or West to the Golden Gate;
Where the blindest bluffs hold good, dear lass,
And the wildest tales are true,
And the men bulk big on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,
And life runs large on the Long Trail -- the trail that is always new.
The days are sick and cold, and the skies are gray and old,
And the twice-breathed airs blow damp;
And I'd sell my tired soul for the bucking beam-sea roll
Of a black Bilbao tramp;
With her load-line over her hatch, dear lass,
And a drunken Dago crew,
And her nose held down on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail
From Cadiz Bar on the Long Trail -- the trail that is always new.
There be triple ways to take, of the eagle or the snake,
Or the way of a man with a maid;
But the fairest way to me is a ship's upon the sea
In the heel of the North-East Trade.
Can you hear the crash on her bows, dear lass,
And the drum of the racing screw,
As she ships it green on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,
As she lifts and 'scends on the Long Trail --
the trail that is always new?
See the shaking funnels roar, with the Peter at the fore,
And the fenders grind and heave,
And the derricks clack and grate, as the tackle hooks the crate,
And the fall-rope whines through the sheave;
It's "Gang-plank up and in," dear lass,
It's "Hawsers warp her through!"
And it's "All clear aft" on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,
We're backing down on the Long Trail -- the trail that is always new.
O the mutter overside, when the port-fog holds us tied,
And the sirens hoot their dread!
When foot by foot we creep o'er the hueless viewless deep
To the sob of the questing lead!
It's down by the Lower Hope, dear lass,
With the Gunfleet Sands in view,
Till the Mouse swings green on the old trail,
our own trail, the out trail,
And the Gull Light lifts on the Long Trail --
the trail that is always new.
O the blazing tropic night, when the wake's a welt of light
That holds the hot sky tame,
And the steady fore-foot snores through the planet-powdered floors
Where the scared whale flukes in flame!
Her plates are scarred by the sun, dear lass,
And her ropes are taut with the dew,
For we're booming down on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,
We're sagging south on the Long Trail -- the trail that is always new.
Then home, get her home, where the drunken rollers comb,
And the shouting seas drive by,
And the engines stamp and ring, and the wet bows reel and swing,
And the Southern Cross rides high!
Yes, the old lost stars wheel back, dear lass,
That blaze in the velvet blue.
They're all old friends on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,
They're God's own guides on the Long Trail --
the trail that is always new.
Fly forward, O my heart, from the Foreland to the Start --
We're steaming all-too slow,
And it's twenty thousand mile to our little lazy isle
Where the trumpet-orchids blow!
You have heard the call of the off-shore wind,
And the voice of the deep-sea rain;
You have heard the song -- how long! how long?
Pull out on the trail again!
The Lord knows what we may find, dear lass,
And The Deuce knows what we may do --
But we're back once more on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,
We're down, hull down on the Long Trail -- the trail that is always new.
poem by Rudyard Kipling
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Going To Paris
We are going to paris
In a ship with red sails
As the storm gathers slowly
We eat fishheads and snails
The mate jumps up, throws down a line
To a man overboard for the ninetieth time
And then he says with a wink
Sometimes I think
Ive been doing this forever!
We are going to paris
In a ship called the ? ?
There are signs in the sky at night
That the captain says hes seen
I keep books under my pillow
And read them before I sleep
Strange places I go to,
Strange companies I keep
We are going to paris
We are one and thirty strong
I can feel it in the air
Well be there before long
The wind has come
Like a man insane, insane
We are going to paris
It rains and it rains
We are going to paris
In a ship with red sails
We are going to paris
In a ship with red sails
song performed by by Waterboys
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Bold Princess Royal
O on the fourteenth day of February we sailed from the land
In the bold Princess Royal bound for Newfoundland.
We had forty bright sailors for our ship's companie,
And boldly from the eastward to the westward sailed we.
We had not been sailing scarce days two or three
When our man from the masthead a sail he did see.
She bore down upon us to see what we were,
When from under her mizzen black colours she wore.
My God cries our Captain what shall we do now
For there comes a bold pirate to rob us I know.
O no, cries our chief mate it cannot be so
For we'll spread out our reef boys and from her we'll go.
And when this bold pirate came up alongside
Through a loudspeaking trumpet he said 'Who are you?'
Our Captain walked the quarterdeck and he answered him so
'We come from fair London and we're bound for Cairo.'
Then draw up your courses and heave your ship to
For I've got a letter. I'll send on by you.
We'll draw up our courses and heave our ship to
But it will be in some harbour not alongside of you.
He chased us to windward for all that long day
He chased us to windward and night and a day
He chased us to windward but could not prevail
Whilst the bold Princess Royal did show them her tail.
Thank God cries our captain, since the pirate has gone
'Bring a cask of good brandy, fore and aft let it run.
Go down to your grog boys, and be of good cheer,
As long as we've sea-room my boys never fear
poem by Robert Burns
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Harbor Dawn
There's a hush and stillness calm and deep,
For the waves have wooed all the winds to sleep
In the shadow of headlands bold and steep;
But some gracious spirit has taken the cup
Of the crystal sky and filled it up
With rosy wine, and in it afar
Has dissolved the pearl of the morning star.
The girdling hills with the night-mist cold
In purple raiment are hooded and stoled
And smit on the brows with fire and gold;
And in the distance the wide, white sea
Is a thing of glamor and wizardry,
With its wild heart lulled to a passing rest,
And the sunrise cradled upon its breast.
With the first red sunlight on mast and spar
A ship is sailing beyond the bar,
Bound to a land that is fair and far;
And those who wait and those who go
Are brave and hopeful, for well they know
Fortune and favor the ship shall win
That crosses the bar when the dawn comes in.
poem by Lucy Maud Montgomery
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Voyage to the Depth
Voyage to the Depth
By: Adam M. Snow
Woe unto us, one of many,
Yet was not the foe-of any-
Unto us the storm crashing tides,
But to sail on, voyage to the depth.
I envy Seas, whereon we rides-
By thee captain side, I stand tall.
Waves crashing upon the haul,
The creaks of soaked oaken rot.
A sound throughout the ship had caught.
Tossing and turning, the ship sailed not.
The thoughts of death upon us all,
Among this time, we all stand tall.
We await the time calming sea,
To sail this voyage once again.
We know not the curse may be,
But we know to sail on to the depth.
None-the-less to live on dreaming,
As we sail the moonlit tides gleaming.
A glistening light in the far distance,
Our only hope to our existence.
That might prove useful and yet never proves.
Closer we are, the further it moves.
Lest not give up hope,
For many should cope.
A journey seen fit till the end.
I should not dare to leave my friend,
But if we do not see the shore again,
I make mend of my very sin.
But the stormy seas rages still,
This voyage ceases to thrill.
Lightning clashes throughout the sky.
A time like this, all things must die.
Journey on to that dark horizon,
Until our bodies rot and wizen
All but I am sickened for home,
Out at sea, do we roam.
Many are ill since lost at sea,
All now knows what our curse may be.
Traveled the world, many times till now,
Onto the depth, our soul soon sail.
We leave behind our eternal vow,
Our promise to return to our love somehow.
We now sail down the river Styx,
Free from the havoc ocean tides.
Lost at sea, not a month but six,
As we leave behind our many brides.
Our vision's clearer than ever before,
Our voyage ends, not a glimpse of shore.
Our soul sails on, unto the abyss,
Our life's voyage went amiss.
We leave behind a story untold,
Many a child to whom never hold.
poem by Adam M. Snow
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The Island Of Endless Play
Said Willie to Tom 'Let us hie away
To the wonderful Island of Endless Play.
It lies off the border of 'No School Land'
And abounds with pleasures, I understand.
There boys go swimming whenever they please
In a lovely river right under the trees.
And marbles are free, no one has to buy;
And kites of all sizes are ready to fly.
We sail down the Isthmus of Idle Delight,
We sail and we sail for a day and a night.
And then if favored by billows and breeze
We land in the harbor of Do-as-you-please.
And their lies the Island of Endless Play
With no one to say to us Must or Nay.
Books are not known in that land so fair,
Teachers are stoned if they set foot there.
Hurrah for the Island so glad and free,
That is the country for you and me.'
So away went Willie and Tom together
On a pleasure boat, in the lazy weather,
And they sailed in the teeth of a friendly breeze
Right into the harbor of 'Do-as-you-please!'
Where boats and tackle and marbles and kites
Were waiting them there in this Land of Delights.
They dwelt on the Island of Endless Play
For five long years; then one sad day
A strange dark ship sailed up to the strand,
And 'Ho! for the voyage to Stupid Land.'
The Captain cried with a terrible noise
As he seized the frightened and struggling boys,
And threw them into the dark Ship's hold,
And off and away sailed the Captain bold.
They vainly begged him to let them out,
He answered only with scoff and shout.
'Boys that don't study or work,' said he,
'Must sail one day down the Ignorant Sea
To Stupid Land by the No-Book strait,
With Captain Time on the Pitiless Fate.'
Then he let out the sails and away went the three,
Over the waters of Ignorant Sea.
Out and away to Stupid Land,
And they live there yet, I understand.
And there's where every one goes, they say,
Who seeks the Island of Endless Play.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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A Salty Dog
'all hands on deck, we've run afloat!' i heard the captain cry
'explore the ship, replace the cook: let no one leave alive!'
Across the straits, around the horn: how far can sailors fly?
A twisted path, our tortured course, and no one left alive
We sailed for parts unknown to man, where ships come home to die
No lofty peak, nor fortress bold, could match our captain's eye
Upon the seventh seasick day we made our port of call
A sand so white, and sea so blue, no mortal place at all
We fired the gun, and burnt the mast, and rowed from ship to shore
The captain cried, we sailors wept: our tears were tears of joy
Now many moons and many junes have passed since we made land
A salty dog, this seaman's log: your witness my own hand
song performed by by Styx
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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When The Ship Comes In
Oh the time will come up
When the winds will stop
And the breeze will cease to be breathin
Like the stillness in the wind
fore the hurricane begins
The hour when the ship comes in
Oh the seas will split
And the ship will hit
And the sands on the shoreline will be shaking
Then the tide will sound
And the wind will pound
And the morning will be breaking
Oh the fishes will laugh
As they swim out of the path
And the seagulls theyll be smiling
And the rocks on the sand
Will proudly stand
The hour that the ship comes in
And the words that are used
For to get the ship confused
Will not be understood as theyre spoken
For the chains of the sea
Will have busted in the night
And will be buried at the bottom of the ocean
A song will lift
As the mainsail shifts
And the boat that drifts on to the shore line
And the sun will respect
Every face on the deck
The hour that the ship comes in
Then the sands will roll
Out a carpet of gold
For your weary toes to be a touchin
And the ships wise men
Will remind you once again
That the whole wide world is watchin
Oh the foes will rise
With the sleep still in their eyes
And theyll jerk from their beds and think theyre still dreamin
But theyll pinch themselves and squeel
And know that its for real
The hour that the ship comes in
Then theyll raise their hands
Sayin well meet all your demands
But well shout from the bow your days are numbered
And like pharaohs tribe
Theyll be drownded in the tide
And like goliath theyll be conquered
song performed by by Pogues
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Man Sails The Deep Awhile
MAN sails the deep awhile;
Loud runs the roaring tide;
The seas are wild and wide;
O'er many a salt, o'er many a desert mile,
The unchained breakers ride,
The quivering stars beguile.
Hope bears the sole command;
Hope, with unshaken eyes,
Sees flaw and storm arise;
Hope, the good steersman, with unwearying hand,
Steers, under changing skies,
Unchanged toward the land.
O wind that bravely blows!
O hope that sails with all
Where stars and voices call!
O ship undaunted that forever goes
Where God, her admiral,
His battle signal shows!
What though the seas and wind
Far on the deep should whelm
Colours and sails and helm?
There, too, you touch that port that you designed -
There, in the mid-seas' realm,
Shall you that haven find.
Well hast thou sailed: now die,
To die is not to sleep.
Still your true course you keep,
O sailor soul, still sailing for the sky;
And fifty fathom deep
Your colours still shall fly.
poem by Robert Louis Stevenson
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Lighthouse
The ravaging winds, swirling and twirling;
Like a ballet dancer in perfect rotations;
Capturing my steadfast site of vision;
As I stare agape at the forceful thrusts of the wind gods;
As they cause havoc of the passing waves;
The ship tilting to and fro; top to bottom;
As the waves rap the flimsy deck boards;
As the thunder strikes the august mast;
That stands strong amidst the drifts and the currents, of the winds and water;
A catastrophe unfolding in the ravenous seas................
Then, from the forgotten corners of the rugged mountains;
An angel intervenes, to carry your ship to the eye of the storm;
A light from over yonder, over the cliffs, over the monumental tide;
Standing tall in her sun-parched white, holding her gaze on my path
As the ship rocks and drifts on the unforgiving seabed;
To a destiny that gazes at you with a stubborn heart;
Sometime, love discovers you in the turbulence of life;
When the winds are rampant and the oceans voracious;
Finally, the ship drifts ashore as you rush past the stuttering cliffs, to her
My lighthouse in her immovable gaze.
poem by Dilantha Gunawardana
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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By The Seaside : Sir Humphrey Gilbert
Southward with fleet of ice
Sailed the corsair Death;
Wild and gast blew the blast,
And the east-wind was his breath.
His lordly ships of ice
Glisten in the sun;
On each side, like pennons wide,
Flashing crystal streamlets run.
His sails of white sea-mist
Dripped with silver rain;
But where he passed there were cast
Leaden shadows o'er the main.
Eastward from Campobello
Sir Humphrey Gilbert sailed;
Three days or more seaward he bore,
Then, alas! the land-wind failed.
Alas! the land-wind failed,
And ice-cold grew the night;
And nevermore, on sea or shore,
Should Sir Humphrey see the light.
He sat upon the deck,
The Book was in his hand;
'Do not fear! Heaven is as near,'
He said, 'by water as by land!'
In the first watch of the night,
Without a signal's sound,
Out of the sea, mysteriously,
The fleet of Death rose all around.
The moon and the evening star
Were hanging in the shrouds;
Every mast, as it passed,
Seemed to rake the passing clouds.
They grappled with their prize,
At midnight black and cold!
As of a rock was the shock;
Heavily the ground-swell rolled.
Southward through day and dark,
They drift in cold embrace,
With mist and rain, o'er the open main;
Yet there seems no change of place.
Southward, forever southward,
They drift through dark and day;
And like a dream, in the Gulf-Stream
Sinking, vanish all away.
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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The Wan Sun Westers, Faint And Slow
The wan sun westers, faint and slow;
The eastern distance glimmers gray;
An eerie haze comes creeping low
Across the little, lonely bay;
And from the sky-line far away
About the quiet heaven are spread
Mysterious hints of dying day,
Thin, delicate dreams of green and red.
And weak, reluctant surges lap
And rustle round and down the strand.
No other sound . . . If it should hap,
The ship that sails from fairy-land!
The silken shrouds with spells are manned,
The hull is magically scrolled,
The squat mast lives, and in the sand
The gold prow-griffin claws a hold.
It steals to seaward silently;
Strange fish-folk follow thro' the gloom;
Great wings flap overhead; I see
The Castle of the Drowsy Doom
Vague thro' the changeless twilight loom,
Enchanted, hushed. And ever there
She slumbers in eternal bloom,
Her cushions hid with golden hair.
poem by William Ernest Henley
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Alexander
It was the Great Alexander,
Capped with a golden helm,
Sate in the ages, in his floating ship,
In a dead calm.
Voices of sea-maids singing
Wandered across the deep:
The sailors labouring on their oars
Rowed as in sleep.
All the high pomp of Asia,
Charmed by that siren lay,
Out of their weary and dreaming minds
Faded away.
Like a bold boy sate their Captain,
His glamour withered and gone,
In the souls of his brooding mariners,
While the song pined on.
Time like a falling dew,
Life like the scene of a dream
Laid between slumber and slumber
Only did seem. . . .
O Alexander, then,
In all us mortals too,
Wax not so overbold
On the wave dark-blue!
Come the calm starry night,
Who then will hear
Aught save the singing
Of the sea-maids clear?
poem by Walter de la Mare
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