Arthur Stringer (1874–1950)

IN the teeth of the Word that bars my track,

In the swirl of the Ebb that sucks me down,

In the face of the storm that flings me back

On the wrath of a Deep grown mountainous-walled,

I, I, tide by tide, and tack by tack,

As far as the chains will let me free—

I threading a course unbuoyed and black,

And feeling the Night where fanged rocks frown,

Ere the last spar sail, shall have somehow crawled

To that Port whence shone no light for me;

Where, wrecked, if you will, but unappalled,

I shall know I am stronger than my Sea!