Ask for the shore—or death, dark death,—I am so done!
FRIDAY.
Twelve knots an hour! But what am I?
A poet, with no land in sight,
Insisting that he feels "all right"
With half a smile—and half a sigh!
SATURDAY.
Comfort? Comfort scorned of lubbers! Hear this truth the Poet roar,
That a sorrow's crown of sorrows is remembering days on shore.
Drug his soda, lest he learn it when the Foreland gleams a spec