In weather riggings died into the roar
Of God's eternal never tamed by shore.
Once in the passage he had worked aloft,
Shifting her suits one summer afternoon,
In the bright Trade wind, when the wind was soft,
Shaking the points, making the tackle croon.
But that was child's play to the future: soon
He would be ordered up when sails and spars
Were flying and going mad among the stars.
He had been scared that first time, daunted, thrilled,