A sail of discourse in the wind’s distaste
May lead the Moirai in such dead doing,
Such golden routes, quoth I, are left to waste
With no hyacinth of love construing.
I concur the ocean’s tranquil viewing,
Yet in thine eyes, I see no diversion.
Enmesh thy foremast in all pursuing,
Custody lives in thy soul’s aversion.
My dear! Dost a cockboat cease submersion?
Such a forecastle may falter with grace –
Grasp me tight! against briny immersion
Ye shan’t succumb to Poseidon’s embrace.
Seek not the regards of inexpert slaves:
A willow swells in this mantle of waves.