Under a Patched Sail
“Oh, we’ll drink once more
when the wind’s off shore,”
We’ll drink from the good old jar,
And then to port,
For the time grows short.
Come lad—to the days that are!
This poem is in the public domain.
I too, dislike it: there are things that are important beyond all this fiddle.
Reading it, however, with a perfect contempt for it, one discovers that there is in
it after all, a place for the genuine.
Hands that can grasp, eyes
that can dilate, hair that can rise
if it must, these things are important not because a
with the naturalness
of the hippopotamus or the alligator
when it climbs out on the bank to experience the
Prince Rupert's drop, paper muslin ghost,
White torch— “with power to say unkind
Things with kindness, and the most
Irritating things in the midst of love and
Tears,” you invite destruction.