⁠The sky, the water, the wind, the shore?
A day-born dream of divine unreason,
⁠A marvel moulded of sleep—no more?
For the cloudlike wave that my limbs while cleaving
Feel as in slumber beneath them heaving
Soothes the sense as to slumber, leaving
⁠Sense of nought that was known of yore.

A purer passion, a lordlier leisure,
⁠A peace more happy than lives on land,
Fulfils with pulse of diviner pleasure
⁠The dreaming head and the steering hand.
I lean my cheek to the cold grey pillow,
The deep soft swell of the full broad billow,
And close mine eyes for delight past measure,
⁠And wish the wheel of the world would stand.