Head-Winds
Over her royals the gray clouds fly;
Fronting her rises the green head-sea;
Round her, the rim of the circling sky
And the slap of the wave ere it rushes alee.
Endlessly climbing the hills of the deep,
Beating them down in a smother of foam—
But oh, for a following wind, and the leap
Down the long sea-slopes, running for home!
Fronting her rises the green head-sea;
Round her, the rim of the circling sky
And the slap of the wave ere it rushes alee.
Endlessly climbing the hills of the deep,
Beating them down in a smother of foam—
But oh, for a following wind, and the leap
Down the long sea-slopes, running for home!
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