The Voyage

When gazing at these rolling boils, with shapes and semblance ever-change,
and far from man's dower wooded toils, to reminisce lands walks in grange.
This heaving pitch, though to and fro, casts foam and spray to windward
gale,
so careful prod I watchful go, weaving tho' I spent the ale.
Now headed the fo'c'sle with guarded step, near the bow and its
cutting edge I make,
headway through o'er fathoms depth, o'er two thousand miles of treacherous lake!
Could'st now I dream, n'er my eyes forsake, a fish in flight
o'er this vast lake,
or look around to tell the plight, my judgement blurred that a fish take flight!
And then one days sun mirrored flat, a sea so calm, but rolling that,
my stomach churn of languish dire, of why this voyage to raise my ire?
To heave and spit and dream to be, upon the land snug against a tree.
I'll take delight at the nearest land, and kiss the earth beneath my hand.
Or will I e're see distant shore, and n'er again to sail the sea,
just leave me be upon lands door, and I'll oft remember where I should be...