OH Ship! new billows sweep thee out Seaward. What wilt thou? Hold the port, be stout See'st not thy mast How rent by stiff Southwestern blast? Thy side, of rowers how forlorn? Thine hull, with groaning yards, with rigging torn, Can ill sustain The fierce, and ever fiercer main; Thy gods, no more than sails entire, From whom yet once thy need might aid require, Of Pontic Pine, The first of woodland, stocks is thine, Yet race and name are but as dust. Not painted sterns give storm-tost seamen trust; Unless thou dare To be the sport of storms, beware. O fold at best a weary weight, A yearning care and constant strain of late, O shun the seas That gird those glittering Cyclades. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...FORERUNNERS by RALPH WALDO EMERSON WAITING - BOTH by THOMAS HARDY TIME TO BE WISE by WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR SIMON LEGREE: NEGRO SERMON; MEMORIAL TO BOOKER T. WASHINGTON by NICHOLAS VACHEL LINDSAY |