Full thirty foot she towered from waterline to rail.
It cost a watch to steer her, and a week to shorten sail;
Why did I dream last night, I wonder, about the ship Ledore
I made a passage in from China — was it 'eighty-three or four &mda
By the old Moulmein Pagoda, lookin' lazy at the sea,
There's a Burma girl a-settin', and I know she thinks o' me;
If you've ever stood a midwatch in the cavern of the night,
With the sea wolves racing past you in a pack;
"Only a pound," said the auctioneer,
"Only a pound; and I'm standing here
There's an ache in my heart, and I can't tell why,
Something to do with the sea and sky,
As there I left the road in May, And took my way along a ground,
El enemigo brutal Nos pone fuego a la casa:
The little, fragile, white-haired lady
Stepped outside in the English moon,
Will you ever forget the mid-watches at sea?
How you tumbled out sleepy and dazed,
Years have trailed past like clouds over a country,
And they'll never return, for they're gone forever,
Ship logs for firewood – take them as you find them,
Broken ends of timber that are good for nothing more,
Pilot boat, lighthouse, Stiff green sea —
Softly along the road of evening,
In a twilight dim with rose,
I've had a whirl at games of chance
From Bombay 'round to Cork,
Oh some are fond of red wine, and some are fond of white,
And some are all for dancing by the pale moonlight:
How dear to my heart are the scenes of my cruises,
When fond recollection presents them to view.
Sé de un pintor atrevido Que sale a pintar contento
Those lumbering horses in the steady plough,
On the bare field - I wonder, why, just now,
We lay upon a flowery hill
Close by the railway lines,
I wandered up and down the quay to-day,
And yesterday, and many days before,
I know not why I yearn for thee again,
To sail once more upon thy fickle flood;
I've been dreamin',
Of a randy, dandy clipper with her tops'ls set,
In the harbour, in the island, in the Spanish Seas,
Are the tiny white houses and the orange-trees,
It's oh to bear a weary heart
Among the shine and show!
Cuentan que antaño,—y por si no lo cuentan, Invéntolo,—un labriego que quería
A large carved cupboard of white oak
emanates that relaxed gentle air
I don't want to go back to Mejillones, On the dusty Chile shore;
What do I see and hear of an April morning?
Many a ridge and furrow, headland and bay,
O Life! -- what a dream,
What a tale that is told!
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