Caravel

My worn sails are lowered, flaked, and stowed below;
this prow may lift no more to the green wave’s rocking.
Though the wind blows fresh at daybreak and the beckoning
horizon draws taut my stays, I may not go.
Survivor of a hundred storms, brought home in tow,
moored to the outermost buoy, denied dry docking,
I lie condemned by a salvage agent’s ruthless reckoning
to be hauled on shore and broken up. But even so,
my Master yet may come for me, regird my timbering,
recruit a crew of hands, renew my planks and caulking,
reglobe my running lamps, set blazoned sails to my spars;
then shall I ride again on evening’s tide, remembering
how the gale’s song goes, on deck my Master walking,
Commander of the ocean seas, the winds, the stars.