In The Trades

Ho, let her rip - with her royal clew a-quiver, And the long miles reeling out behind - For the Trade's got a hold of her and every rope's a-shiver With the strong and steady urging of the wind. All the gleaming white of her, all the sun and shade Leaning, swaying to the seas, All up the height of her the South-east Trade Humming like a swarm of bees. Underneath the heel of her the white wake flying, Tumbled and trampled into snow - Down below the keel of her the lost ships lying In the weed and the coral, far below . . .