The sailor keeps a clean soul on the seas untrod;
There is room in the great spaces for the Vision of God
Walking on the waters, bidding him not fear;
He has the very cleanest eyes a man can wear.
There's salt wind in Heaven and the salt sea-spray,
And the little midshipmen boys are shouting at their play.
There's a soft sound of waters lapping on the shore,
The sailor he is home from sea to go back no more.
OFF HELIGOLAND
GHOSTLY ships in a ghostly sea,—
Here's to Drake in the Spanish main!—
Hark to the turbines, running free,
Oil-cups full and the orders plain.
Plunging into the misty night,
Surging into the rolling brine,
Never a word, and never a light,—
This for England, that love of mine!
Look! a gleam on the starboard bow,—
Here's to the Fighting Temeraire!
Quartermaster, be ready now,
Two points over, and keep her there.
Ghostly ships—let the foemen grieve.
Yon's the Admiral, tight and trim,
And one more—with an empty sleeve—
Standing a little aft of him!
Slender, young, in a coat of blue,—
Here's to the Agamemnon's pride!—
Out of the mists that long he knew,
Out of the Victory, where he died,
Here, to the battle-front he came.
See, he smiles in his gallant way!
Ghostly ships in a ghostly game,
Roaring guns on a ghostly day!
