The Petrel
Storm-petrels roost where the land is sheering;
An old skipper said that, in my very hearing.
She dabbles her wings in foam as she's floundering;
Rides the big rollers; no sign of foundering.
The bird and the waves rise and fall there together;
In calms she is silent, shrieks in foul weather.
She moves in a way that's half swimming, half flying,
A dream between heaven and hell's pit plying.
Too heavy for air, too light for wave-wallowing :
Poet-bird, poet-bird, the line I've been following!
Yes, and what's worst is, in pedants' eyes
Most of this passes for sailors' lies.
On galère un peu en anglais mais on va faire ca à fond !!!!!
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