By Geoffrey Bache-Smith
O, sing me a song of the wild west wind, And his great sea-harrying flail, Of hardy mariners, copper skinned, That fly with a bursting sail. They see the clouds of crispèd white That shadow the distant hills, And filled are they with a strange delight As shaking away old ills. O, give me a boat that is sure and stark, And swift as a slinger’s stone, With a sail of canvas bronzèd dark, And I will go out alone: Nor fear nor sorrow my soul shall keep When around me lies the sea, And I will return with the night, and sleep In the wind’s wild harmony.