MASTERLESS
With tattered sail, as ships which driven are
On whatsoever course the winds may list,
Which every peaceful waterway have missed,
And drift on open seas with shattered spar
And gaping seam, which toss and sway and nod,
Remote from sight of land and hope of aid,
So is the canvassed, crude conveyance made
In which Man journeys to the port of God.
No pillow in his vessel rests the head