  From the flotsam of a city street we built the Swinging Stair, And latitude, or longitude, the least of all our care. A tilting board—an orange crate—the sparrows screamed with glee, As we swung to port and starboard like a lugger on the sea. We cruised without a compass, but with merchandise of worth, To barter pins and needles at the portals of the Earth. The helmsman was my hero brave, his hair as red could be; Perhaps he was the janitor’s boy, but he belonged to me; He was mine because I made him master of the Swinging Stair, And because I liked the color of his very auburn hair. The surf upon the sandbars called the price of sugar cane; It was mounting every moment down upon the Spanish Main. The trades were in the topsails, in the scuppers raced the foam, But never did we get beyond the gateway of our home. We have notions that the motions of a lugger ’neath a tree Do not exactly tally with the leagues she makes at sea; Yet the glory of the ocean lies in no far distant goal, But reflections in the water, and the port to starboard roll. |
|
