From the Oregon ranges the tang of the pine
And the breath of the Baltic as bracing as wine,
In a fly-spotted window I there did behold,
Among the stale odours of hot food and cold,
A ship in a bottle some sailor had made
In watches below, swinging South with the Trade,
When the fellows were patching old dungaree suits,
Or mending up oilskins and leaky seaboots,
Or whittling a model or painting a chest,
Or yarning and smoking and watching the rest.