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For all my life it's been,
it's in the blood--
I long for the sea
as only a sailor can.
A sailor from boyhood I,
too long, now, on the land.
An aluminum canoe is no more a ship
than a verse, of itself, is a poem.
The clouds float serenely blue-and-white
overhead,
majestic as a great flotilla.
Where have they traveled?
And here I'm tied to a post.
O that I could float
from land to land instead.
But I have my books,
paper bound, hard bound,
leather bound;
some antiques with fragile pages.
There I find the images
that so long have fed my hunger:
lithographs of the mighty clippers--
ah, to tread their teak-wood decks,
to climb the ratlines like a monkey
up the mast.
To be the one who bellows out the orders,
who man's the helm,
who's calling out, "Land, ho!"
But alas, my ships are only picture books,
and I'm growing too old for the sea,
But as I walk alone along the shore,
it beckons, beckons me.
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