Guy Wetmore Carryl

“ The great, blue bell of the cloudless sky and the ocean’s romping green!
Nor sane young day, nor swirl of spray, as the cat’s-paws lunge and lift;—
On sad, slow waves, like the mounds of graves, the fishermen’s dories drift. ”

“ When the fog slinks down from Labrador, stealthy, sure, and slow !
Oh, men of the fleet, ’t is ye who learn, of the white fog’s biting breath,
That life may hang on the way ye turn, or the way ye turn be death! ”