Western Sky-Look

When clouds shake out their sails Before delighted gales, I think the sailor-men at sea, Hearing the engine throbbing free Curse their today's fate that they must Defeat Magellan with black dust, Scrape deck plates till the nerves are worn -; Whose fathers froze in desperate weather Sail-handling in Death's despite together. Here's never work that's fit for man, Bristol Cabot, Drake, Magellan Set man's strength square against the sea, With courage broken and bulwarks lashed, And seventh-Hell battle never drawn; While here and now pale Duty does Domestic service on bright brass. . . . The sailor-men lift heart and eyes To the thronged skies: They cleave the air, leap winged to shake More sails, more sails out; watch the wake Of cirrus lengthen on the blue, And run clean sailor-work to do . . . Fall sheer ... to waste and paraffin - Pistons gone tired of out-and-in. Hard work as black and dull as sin.