Oh, a sailor hasn't much to brag -
An oilskin suit and a dunnage bag.
But, howsoever humble he be,
By the Living God, he has the sea!
The long, white leagues and the foam of it,
And the heart to make a home of it,
On a ship that kicks up waves behind
Through the blazing days and tempests blind.
Oh, a sailor hasn't much to love -
But he has the huge, blue sky above
The everlasting waves around,
That wash with an eternal sound.
So bury me, when I come to die,
Where the full-sailed, heeling clippers ply;
Give up the last cold body of me,
To the only home that I have - the sea!
Always wonder the power of the sea in total, seems greater than imagination and so gentle as I swim and strke some feet out from the foamy surf, Dad a US battleship sailor told me respect the sea, a lady you'll do well.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
At its beginning all poetry tells of the ocean's inspiration, also greater is the brown winding path of wood and leaf, brooks that babble and a gentle, unny wind whispering aloof with bird's song.