YOU who are seaborn do not know Low quiet hills against the sky. There is no peace the way you go But restless ships and a gull's cry. A trail that winds in silent grass, A grove of sycamores, strayed sheep, A lark's warm song, you never pass. . . Wild water rocks you to your sleep. You who are seaborn always bear The sea about your ways, your words. I am content to sit and stare At water distant as far birds. |