I Must Go Down To The Sea

When The Last Sea Is Sailed And Last Shallow Charted, When The Last Field Is Reaped And The Last Harvest Stored, When The Last Fire Is Out And The Last Guest Departed Grant The Last Prayer That I Pray, Be Good To Me, O Lord.

On The Long Dusty Ribbon Of The Long City Street, The Pageant Of Life Is Passing Me On Multitudinous Feet, With A Word Here Of The Hills, And A Song There Of The Sea And-the Great Movement Changes-the Pageant Passes Me.

What Am I, Life? A Thing Of Watery Salt Held In Cohesion By Unresting Cells, Which Work They Know Not Why, Which Never Halt, Myself Unwitting Where Their Master Dwells?

Poetry Is A Mixture Of Common Sense, Which Not All Have, With An Uncommon Sense, Which Very Few Have.

Man Cannot Call The Brimming Instant Back; Time's An Affair Of Instants Spun To Days; If Man Must Make An Instant Gold, Or Black, Let Him, He May; But Time Must Go His Ways. Life May Be Duller For An Instant's Blaze. Life's An Affair Of Instants Spun To Years, Instants Are Only Cause Of All These Tears.