E. E. SMITH

O my soul that fliest over never-ending seas That are so still their deeps lie dark beneath the sun, Untroubled by any foam, so that the ship-boy sees All the world's water, and thinks his voyage never done: Some day thou wilt stay thy wings and stoop to land Where the sea's edge lies sharp like a bright sword, And hardly break the waves, and sweet is the sand Where the keel runs home and ships are gently shored. There sit the solemn seamen, with rings in their brown ears, Who are grave when they laugh and are not ashamed to weep; Their hair and their beards are grown long with the long years, And some are too old and too wise for speaking, and some sleep. And when the night grows cold they stir, and touch their lips With dark-red sluggish liquor, and kindle a fire from wood Washed up by a quiet wave from the wracked majestical ships, The planks where the feet of the sea-captains and the ship-boys stood. Their eyes grow silent and dark, their gnarled bodies swing Like trees that are stript in a wind; they go mad with moon and stars, Murmuring songs like water, and beating their hands as they sing Of how they are fled far off from the foam of tides and the handling of bars.