Seahaven

Sing ho! for the waves on the grey-green sea:
on the whale's road I would ride.
Far away from the too-still land I'd go;
to rock on the swells my legs would go,
to stomp down the deck and never land more --
I would leave with the next high tide.

So you long for to plough the salt foam sea,
oh, the grey-green sea and the sky,
for your home, a deck in the stinging spray
and a place on a rough-rocked coast to weigh;
I see you would leave the next good day,
for I see grey-green in your eyes.

To the seahaven is a long, hard haul,
but I'll leave soon as I may,
for I'm tired of treading the hard earth down
among land-loving sods who hide in towns
when tempest and wind make the breakers pound --
oh no, that is no life for me!

With a wild, wet wind to feed your sail,
by the cut of a figured prow,
you could go, my friend, to the seahaven
to live the life of free sailing men;
but you know you will never see it again --
you must stay ever land locked now.

These are the voices he hears in his head
as he walks by himself on the shore,
and the murmur of the dying tide,
it echoes the way that he dies inside,
for with no ship, here he must abide,
never sail, never live, ever more.

But still you can hear when the wind is high,
the sea in his grey-green eyes,
and you know he's never really ceased
to hope that someday, he'll be released
to stride once again across the seas,
oh, the grey-green sea and the sky.