Everywhere, as where the winter pines
Throw their green froth against the sky,
The summer hills heave toward the sun,
Or leaning clouds of autumn run to leeward,
A ship rolls forever through my life,
And I, a passenger of doubtless destination,
But with unknown ports-of-call,
Gaze from the rail to where the calm horizon
Conceals the wild tomorrow.
Sometimes, all cozied in my cabin of the moment,
My work bench, with its landlocked tools
(Saws, squares and vise), becomes a mariner's table
Strewn with yellowed charts and brass dividers.
And there against the wall hangs a clock In Greenwich time, Hidden by the trivial local hour.
Or looking at the window's well-framed trees and grass
I'm never bothered by illusion,
But see the blowing spume sail past
Off the briny field of storm shade gray
Where fishes leap to the eye's confusion.