The ship is in the harbor, the fish are in the sea,
The wind is in the sails, the tide is in, and we
Are indisposed to travel, we prefer dry land,
The false, familiar face, the disappointing hand,
To the stranger’s clumsy touch and speculative stare.
Can you hear them singing, singing high up in the air,
The over-subtle sirens, like sphinxes, with one voice
Secretively suggesting, “Man must make a choice!
Home is heaven and forgiveness. Abroad is simply hell.
Who would choose the ocean to inhabit, and the bitter swell?”

This Issue

April 28, 1966