Classic Poem

What watch, what woe, what want, what wrack,
Is due to those that toil the seas.
Life led with loss, of pains no lack,
In storms to win much restless ease;
A bedless board in sea's unrest
May hap to him that chanceth best.

How sundry sounds with lead and line
Unto the deep the shipman throws;
‘No foot to spare!’ he cries oft times,
‘No near!’ when ‘How?’ the master blows.
If Neptune frown, all be undone;
Straightway the ship the wrack hath won.

These dangers great do oft befall
On those that sheer upon the sand;
Judge of their lives, the best who shall?
How vile it is, few understand.
Alack, who then may judge their game?
Not they which have not felt the same.

But they that fall in storms and wind,
And days and years have spent therein,
Such well may judge, since proof they find,
In rage no rest till calm begin.
No more than those, that love do feign,
Give judgement of true lovers' pain.