The Old Whale

When I'm growing old (if I'm getting tired of sailing Up and down the seas, and always finding something new), When I come to feel the sight and strength of me are failing, Maybe I'll curl up then, as the old whales do; When I've lived on land, and never feel the fret and fever Pull me back to seaward (as may one day be), When I hear my old bones saying that it's time for me to leave her, Maybe I'll curl up then ashore, and leave the sea! I'll grow a few flowers then; I'll have a few friends nigh me, Lie soft, and never care for all the winds that blow: Eat, and sleep, and smoke, and let the hours go by me, In the little easy ways that old men know; Or sit by a winter fire, and tell the old tales over, Listen for a shipmate's step coming to the door, Talk of men and ships I knew, from Torres Strait to Dover, And . . . maybe the heart of me'll be happy on the shore. Maybe I'll forget then how, when I was younger (Pleasant folks about me, and my girl's kiss on my lip), When I've been a month or less on land I'd feel the hunger Drive me through the ports again, looking for a ship; Maybe then the shore things won't seem stale; and I won't waken In the night and think of all my friends forgetting me, Nor know (when it's too late to know) how sore I was mistaken Curling up ashore there . . . with my heart at sea!