THE SEA
51
Of my mates over there who are dead,Of my mates who are graved in the sea,And I think that if God gave me choice of graves,I know what my choice would be!
The spindrift smites my face,As there comes the lashing of rain,And the gale whistles through the top-gallantsLike the cry of a soul in pain,Like the cry of a soldier slain?—Or a mariner in the sea?—Ah! if God would but give me choice of death,I know what my choice would be!
