A WIND'S in the heart of me, a fire's in my heels, <br />I am tired of brick and stone and rumbling wagon-wheels; <br />I hunger for the sea's edge, the limit of the land, <br />Where the wild old Atlantic is shouting on the sand. <br /> <br />Oh I'll be going, leaving the noises of the street, <br />To where a lifting foresail-foot is yanking at the sheet; <br />To a windy, tossing anchorage where yawls and ketches ride, <br />Oh I'l be going, going, until I meet the tide. <br /> <br />And first I'll hear the sea-wind, the mewing of the gulls, <br />The clucking, sucking of the sea about the rusty hulls, <br />The songs at the capstan at the hooker warping out, <br />And then the heart of me'll know I'm there or thereabout. <br /> <br />Oh I am sick of brick and stone, the heart of me is sick, <br />For windy green, unquiet sea, the realm of Moby Dick; <br />And I'll be going, going, from the roaring of the wheels, <br />For a wind's in the heart of me, a fire's in my heels.<br /><br />John Masefield<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-wanderer-s-song/
