<h3 id="Down_at_the_Docks">Down at the Docks</h3>
<p>DOWN at the docks—when the smoke clouds lie,<br/>
Wind-ript and red, on an angry sky—<br/>
Coal-dumps and derricks and piled-up bales,<br/>
Tar and the gear of forgotten sails,<br/>
Rusted chains and a broken spar<br/>
(Yesterday’s breath on the things that are)<br/>
A lone, black cat and a snappy cur,<br/>
Smell of high-tide and of newcut fir,<br/>
Smell of low-tide, fish, weed!—I swear<br/>
I love every blesséd smell that’s there—<br/>
For, aeons ago when the sea began,<br/>
My soul was the soul of a sailorman.</p>
<p>Down at the docks—where the ships come in,<br/>
And the endless trails of the sea begin,<br/>
Where the shining wake of a steamer’s track<br/>
Is barred by the tow of the tugboats black,<br/>
Where slim yachts dip to the singing spray<br/>
And a gay wind whistles the world away—<br/>
Here sad ships lie which will sail no more,<br/>
But new ships build on the noisy shore,<br/>
And always the breath of the wind and tide<br/>
Whispers the lure of the sea outside,<br/>
Till now and to-morrow and yesterday<br/>
Are linked by the spell of the faraway!</p>
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<p>Down at the docks—when the morning’s new<br/>
And the air is gold and the distance blue,<br/>
There’s a pull at the heart! But best of all<br/>
Is to see the sun shrink, red and small,<br/>
While the fog steals in (more surely fleet<br/>
Than the smacks that run from her white-shod feet)<br/>
And clamours of startled calls arise<br/>
From bewildered ships that have lost their eyes;<br/>
The fog horn bellows its deep-mouthed shout,<br/>
The little lights on the shore blur out<br/>
And strange, dim shapes pass wistfully<br/>
With a secret tide to a secret sea.</p>
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