The Luck Will Alter And The Star

It Is Too Maddening. I've Got To Fly Off, Right Now, To Some Devilish Navy Yard, 3 Hours In A Seasick Steamer, & After Being Heartily Sick, I'll Have To Speak 3 Times, & Then Be Sick Coming Home. Still, Who Would Not Be Sick For England?

Quinquireme Of Nineveh From Distant Ophir, Rowing Home To Haven In Sunny Palestine, With A Cargo Of Ivory, And Apes And Peacocks, Sandalwood, Cedarwood, And Sweet White Wine.

It's A Warm Wind, The West Wind, Full Of Birds' Cries.

Each One Could Be A Jesus Mild, Each One Has Been A Little Child, A Little Child With Laughing Look, A Lovely White Unwritten Book; A Book That God Will Take, My Friend, As Each Goes Out At Journey's End.

I Must 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.