Classic Poem

This strange sea-going craze began
with Jason. Pine from Pelion,
weathered and shaped, was first to brave
the whirlpool and the whistling wave.
I wish the Argo had gone down
and seafaring remained unknown;
for now Corinna, scornful of
her safety and my vigilant love,
intends to tempt the winds and go
cruising upon the treacherous blue
waters where no shade-giving ilex,
temple or marble pavement breaks
with its enlightened artistry
the harsh monotony of the sea.
Walk on the beach, where you may hear
the whorled conch whisper in your ear;
dance in the foam, but never trust
the water higher than your waist.
I'm serious. Listen to those with real
experience of life under sail:
believe their frightening anecdotes
of rocks and gales and splintered boats.
You won't be able to change your mind
when once your ship is far from land
and the most sanguine seamen cease
their banter as the waves increase.
How pale you'd grow if Triton made
the waters crash around your head —
so much more comfortable ashore
reading, or practising the lyre!
Still, if you're quite determined, God
preserve you from a watery bed:
Nereus' nymphs would be disgraced
if my Corinna should be lost.
Think of me as your shrinking craft
becomes a pinpoint in the aft-
ernoon, and again when homeward bound
with canvas straining in the wind.
I'll be the first one at the dock
to meet the ship that brings you back.
I'll carry you ashore and burn
thank-offerings for your safe return.
Right there we'll make a bed of sand,
a table of a sand-dune, and
over the wine you'll give a vivid
sketch of the perils you survived —
how, faced with a tempestuous sea,
you kept your head and thought of me!
Make it up if you like, as I
invent this pleasant fantasy . . .