Sara Teasdale (8 August 1884 – 29 January 1933 / Missouri)
In the pull of the wind I stand, lonely,
On the deck of a ship, rising, falling,
Wild night around me, wild water under me,
Whipped by the storm, screaming and calling.
Earth is hostile and the sea hostile,
Why do I look for a place to rest?
I must fight always and die fighting
With fear an unhealing wound in my breast.
Comments about this poem (At Sea by Sara Teasdale )
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