The Doldrums (A Still-Life Picture)

The sails hang dead, or they lift and flap like a cornfield scarecrow's coat, And the seabirds swim abreast of us like ducks that play, a-float, And the sea is all an endless field that heaves and falls a-far As if the earth were taking breath on some strange, alien star, For there are miles and miles of weed that tramp around and 'round Till a fellow's tempted to step out and try if it's the ground. And, sometimes when we strike a space that's clear of wild sea-grass Our faces look up true and smooth as from a looking glass - For unwrinkled as a baby's smile the ocean lies about And a pin would break in ripples if we only cast one out . . . But the skipper isn't happy for there's not a wind that blows, - And beware the Mate's belaying pin as up the deck he goes, For the ship, she's rolling, rolling like a nigger on a spree And the cargo's almost shifted as we wallow in the sea Because, out somewhere miles away a storm is waking hell . . . And up smooth lifts of bubbling weed we ride the rolling swell . . . Oh, each inch of us is crawling with the itch of prickly heat; We can hear our own blood throbbing like a Chinese tom-tom's beat And we catch a voice that's lifted, though it hardly seems in prayer - It's the poor old cook that's cursing in the boiling galley there . . . Oh, the region of the doldrums, for the devil it was made And all decent seamen hate it as they pray for winds of trade As they flounder toward the trade-winds where the sails lift full and free And once more the prow runs onward foaming through the open sea.