And silence whereso’er I go:
If a storm should come, and awake the deep,
What matter? I shall ride and sleep.
I love, oh how I love, to ride
On the fierce, foaming, bursting tide,
When every mad wave drowns the moon,
Or whistles aloft its tempest tune,
And tells how goeth the world below,
And why the south-west blasts do blow!
I never was on the dull, tame shore,