I Must Go Down To The Sea

Off Cape Horn There Are But Two Kinds Of Weather, Neither One Of Them A Pleasant Kind.

In The Dark Room Where I Began My Mother's Life Made Me A Man. Through All The Months Of Human Birth Her Beauty Fed My Common Earth. I Cannot See, Nor Breathe, Nor Stir, But Through The Death Of Some Of Her.

Oh Some Are Fond Of Spanish Wine, And Some Are Fond Of French.

The Corn That Makes The Holy Bread By Which The Soul Of Man Is Fed, The Holy Bread, The Food Unpriced, Thy Everlasting Mercy, Christ.

To Most Of Us The Future Seems Unsure. But Then It Always Has Been; And We Who Have Seen Great Changes Must Have Great Hopes.