The circling albatross never sleeps,
broad wings resting in the dimpled air
as lazy dolphins bask beneath
in ocean currents that never sleep,
but drive us out and onwards through the deeps,
away from home and harbour, wives and lovers,
away from gentle rest and sleep.

The boundless ocean never ends,
no not within the sight of man or bird,
but still he flies, a guide, a friend,
that wild-winged wanderer of the seas;
some rock of land remains within his reach
with but a simple twist of wings
in air.  So still, and still, he's free.

The guiding stars shift every night
and we are shorn from all the shores we know.
No soundings, just the empty white
of unwrit charts, and sun-cast light
reflecting from our evening Hesperus,
our morning bird.  But we are gone too long:
pale mourning missed, and clouded minds and sight.