In the harbour, in the island, in the Spanish Seas, Are the tiny white houses and the orange-trees, And day-long, night-long, the cool and pleasant breeze Of the steady Trade Winds blowing. There is the red wine, the nutty Spanish ale, The shuffle of the dancers, the old salt’s tale, The squeaking fiddle, and the soughing in the sail Of the steady Trade Winds blowing. And at nights there’s fire-flies and the yellow moon, And in the ghostly palm-trees the sleepy tune Of the quiet voice calling me, the long low croon Of the steady Trade Winds blowing. SEA-FEVER 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. PRAYER When the last sea is sailed and the last shallow charted, When the last field is reaped and the last harvest stored, When the last fire is out and the last guest departed, Grant the last prayer that I shall pray, Be good to me, O Lord! And let me pass in a night at sea, a night of storm and thunder, In the loud crying of the wind through sail and rope and spar; Send me a ninth great peaceful wave to drown and roll me under To the cold tunny-fishes’ home where the drowned galleons are. And in the dim green quiet place far out of sight and hearing, Grant I may hear at whiles the wash and thresh of the sea-foam About the fine keen bows of the stately clippers steering Towards the lone northern star and the fair ports of home. THE WEST WIND It’s a warm wind, the west wind, full of birds’ cries; I never hear the west wind but tears are in my eyes. For it comes from the west lands, the old brown hills, And April’s in the west wind, and daffodils. It’s a fine land, the west land, for hearts as tired as mine, Apple orchards blossom there, and the air’s like wine. There is cool green grass there, where men may lie at rest, And the thrushes are in song there, fluting from the nest.