I heard a story of a sailing man. <br />He was a surly sort of mariner, <br />He used to swear at all the seven seas, <br />And rode them dauntless up and down the earth. <br /> <br /> <br />But when he sickened of the windy wash, <br />He took to wife a proper village woman <br />And put her in a precious little house; <br />And there he weathered many winter seasons, <br />Knocking the ashes neatly from his pipe <br />Upon the tended hearth. <br /> <br /> <br />And only when he went upon the moors, <br />And felt the sting and censure of the winds, <br />And tasted of the salt blown in from sea, <br />Then only would he curse the marriage morning, <br />And swear he'd not go skulking back again <br />To sit that hearth like any broken bitch <br />Whose running time was over.<br /><br />John Crowe Ransom<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-christian-2/
