As Viking bold, I rode on the crest; The wrath of storms was added zest. Today I own no ship that is fleet, Yet try to make my life complete. When clouds are low and hurriedly sail I bare my breast to the stormy gale. The lashing rain that falls on my face Recalls the joys of thrilling race. Today's conventions hamper my will, But inner flames they never kill. As gypsy maid must follow the trail, I long ever onward to sail; And face this life with mutinous soul That scorns convention's putrid toll. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...HOME, SWEET HOME, FR. CLARI, THE MAID OF MILAN by JOHN HOWARD PAYNE IN MEMORY OF GENERAL GRANT by HENRY ABBEY TO MISS KINDER, ON RECEIVING A NOTE DATED FEBRUARY 30TH by ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD A NEW PILGRIMAGE: 23 by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT YEARNING by HARRY RANDOLPH BLYTHE PIANO TUNING by MARIANNE BORUCH QUI TRANSTULIT SUSTINET by JOHN GARDINER CALKINS BRAINARD ON AN INFANT UNBORN, AND THE MOTHER DYING IN TRAVAIL by WILLIAM BROWNE (1591-1643) |