Classic Poem

Proud Ship, the waves and winds conspire
To drag you back to sea.
O, gain the port that we desire;
Ride swiftly, lest you be
A hopeless wreck; for even now
Devoid of oars you sail,
Your mast is bent and weak (a blow
Dealt by a foreign gale).
And see the signs that from each spar
A dire destruction spell:
Your sails in tattered ribbons are
That catch the breezes' swell.
Your keel shows lines of swift decay;
Your cables all are bare;
No gods are left to whom you may
Turn with a frenzied prayer.
Of Pontic pine, you boast, you came,
Reared in a noble wood;
Think you that this will ever tame
The tempest's angry mood?
'Tis little courage sailors find
In neatly-painted boats.
Beware then, lest the howling wind
Hurls back the boastful notes.
Oh, You who are my grief and care,
Turn back to calmer seas.
Beware, oh precious Ship, beware
The shining Cyclades.