Of the Sea

Of the Sea

Hark, hold, feel the vastness of the sea.
None but the oldest men
Who have known their sin
Can speak to its trials and troubles;
And speak in heavy tone
Having left it, alone.
Upon it, loneliness dies or doubles
And it’s this, they might wish, to say to me.

What’s found upon the water, see
Glittering sun
That overrun
The pages of countless, who write for it.
And whatever is below
Imagination should follow-
Ancient wonders, that upon thrones sit
Or vanish, in shade, and sanded mystery.

Time, our driver, makes no master
Of ridden waves
Not even god saves,
Being powerless, to blue, and white-foam-spire.
Should a clock tick
It leaves no nick
Upon the swirling great gyre-
Like few things, beauty or disaster.

And who alive should try their conquest
In this, the endless?
None but the restless
They, or the courageous and bold.
Still, those voices
Harrowing noises
“Journey not, young man,” say the old;
Read the water’s secrets- find no (or eternal) rest.

It’s only mankind that would endeavor
Upon such a thing.
Perhaps muses sing
And ask one to set their sail.
Or within, old bells toll
And ring upon the soul
So that the heart might hail
To what, from birth, a man wants forever.

None know what they’ll find
But the call of the heart.
Heard, I may not start.
But when I think of that, my mind’s a stone.
Restless, never still
To this, or that, my will
Calls for what I’ve been shown.
To think of this brightens my mind.

Little else I’ll find should compare
But that learned fire
Which all men desire
What other pursuit might muses bring?
Here too, the bold risk the gyre
Or else, lay upon a pyre.
True, perhaps only fools who sing
Of how a heart wanders, and lays itself bare…

Hark, hold, feel the vastness of the sea
See too the waters,
Eons of mothers and fathers
Have left us, still, an empty, and sunny shore.
My feet in its warm sand
Fool or not, I will stand
And might ask for nothing more
But to brave the water, should you sail with me.