No, no, it shall not be; the poet's eye
Shall yet flash fire, his heart shall never fail,
Though round about him, blanching in the gale,
His fellows falter----Waves, be not too high;
Mere height proves nothing. Leave, oh leave me dry.
Down, waves! Down, fluttering heart! Why should I quail?
Here in the packet of the Royal Mail
I tread the deck and do disdain to fly.
But ah, what pangs are these? No, no!-- yes, yes!--
Again I say it shall not be--no, no!--
At least not yet--but yet I do confess
A craven yearning draws me down below.
Curst be the words in which I erst did bless
The towering billows----Steward! yo, heave, ho!