THOUGH all the fates should prove unkind, <br />Leave not your native land behind. <br />The ship, becalmed, at length stands still; <br />The steed must rest beneath the hill; <br />But swiftly still our fortunes pace <br />To find us out in every place. <br /> <br />The vessel, though her masts be firm, <br />Beneath her copper bears a worm; <br />Around the cape, across the line, <br />Till fields of ice her course confine; <br />It matters not how smooth the breeze, <br />How shallow or how deep the seas, <br />Whether she bears Manilla twine, <br />Or in her hold Madeira wine, <br />Or China teas, or Spanish hides, <br />In port or quarantine she rides; <br />Far from New England's blustering shore, <br />New England's worm her hulk shall bore, <br />And sink her in the Indian seas, <br />Twine, wine, and hides, and China teas.<br /><br />Henry David Thoreau<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/though-all-the-fates/
