  “Oh, wilt thou go a-sailing,” said the janitor’s boy to me: “It’s raining, but I’ve got a raft rigged with a canopy. “We carry boisterous batteries, our cannon balls are stones, But I’ll wager all your loveliness you’re safe with John Paul Jones.” I asked him very faintly was he competent to steer? He said he was authority on rafts and running gear. Then suddenly his voice sank low to slow and gentle tones, And off I went a-sailing with my captain, John Paul Jones. We drifted down the avenue that was our sweep of sea. And never man or mermaid any happier than we. We paused beside a paradise depicted on a sign; We moored fast to the margin of its crimson border line. We slipped our surf-filled sandals off, we waded to the knee, And when I felt like swooning John Paul Jones supported me. The darkness hesitated, fearing we might lose our way; We counted all the street lamps ’ere we homeward sought to stray. We counted corner lanterns, and the understanding stars Saw we were linked by longings for the shining shell-strewn bars. For the realms reserved for rovers, for the rafts and painted signs, And the right to moor to ring-heads in the far-off border lines. |
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