Along the bare poles stabbing up aloft;
I saw loose men, their garments ever flapping,
Lounging a-row along each ruined wooden stair:
Their untamed faces in the golden sun were soft,
But their hard, bright eyes were wild, and in the sun’s soft flare
Nothing they saw but sounding seas and the crash of ravening wind;
Nothing but furious struggle with toil that never would end.
The call of mine ancient sea was clamoring through their blood;
Ah, they all felt that call, but nothing they understood,
As I came down by the winding streets to South Street by the water.