  Whenever he would talk to us of ships, Old schooners lost, or tall ships under weigh, The god of speech was neighbour to his lips, A lover's grace on words he loved to say. He called them by their names, and you could see Spars in the sun, keels, and their curling foam; And all his mind was like a morning quay Of ships gone out, and ships come gladly home. He filled the bay with sails we had not seen: The Marguerita L., "a maid for shape," The slender Kay, the worthy Island Queen,— That was his own, he lost her off the Cape, "She was a ship"—and then he looked away, And talked to us no more of ships that day. |
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