The heart is a deluded admiral
Who, leaving his profession of the sea,
Essayed the passage that he chose to call
Happiness and home. Such a fool, he.

Stirring in landlock, rocked by his own chair
He contemplates the long-discarded ocean.
For there is nothing there and nothing there
In the exhaustion of no real motion.

A recompense now sweetens in the shadows.
The silence of the tide, its wordsome foray,
Can offer him more roses of the mind

Than saltsea strikes. In him are new armadas.
So charged against the power and the glory
He puts to wind, to find what he must find.

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