I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky, And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by; And the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song and the white sail’s shaking, And a grey mist on the sea’s face, and a grey dawn breaking.
I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied; And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying, And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.
I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life, To the gull’s way and the whale’s way where the wind’s like a whetted knife; And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover, And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick’s over.
Outward Bound Helen Hunt Jackson
The hour has come. Strong hands the anchor raise; Friends stand and weep along the fading shore, In sudden fear lest we return no more, In sudden fancy that he safer stays Who stays behind; that some new danger lays New snare in each fresh path untrod before. Ah, foolish hearts! In fate's mysterious lore Is written no such choice of plan and days: Each hour has its own peril and escape; In most familiar things' familiar shape New danger comes without or sight or sound; No sea more foreign rolls than breaks each morn Across our thresholds when the day is born: We sail, at sunrise, daily, "outward bound."