Classic Poem

I am no deep-sea rover
Where the billows curl and cream,
But I plough the lakes of clover
Behind a clanking team.
With a tall pine for bearing
I sail the scented foam,
'Til twilight rings the pasture bells
And lights the Port of Home.

What matter if my faring
Is up and down the land,
The harbor of my caring
Is always close at hand.
A warm bed and quiet,
Free of fear and wreck,
Is better than a riot
On a forecastle deck.

The spray of petals flying
Is sweeter far, I say,
Than all the mournful crying
Of a fog-blinded bay;
And the tacking of the swallows
Across the waves of wheat
Is a fairer sight than headsails
Where blue horizons meet.

My adventuring is over:
I am stranded here at ease,
My decks awash with clover,
My halliards manned with bees.
And yet the seagulls find me
With clamor of the sea
And still the sea-dreams gather
To haunt the heart of me.