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A Wanderer's Song
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A wind's in the heart of me, a fire's in my
heels,
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I am tired of brick and stone and rumbling wagon-wheels;
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I hunger for the sea's edge, the limit of the
land,
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Where the wild old Atlantic is shouting on the
sand.
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Oh I'll be going, leaving the noises of the
street,
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To where a lifting foresail-foot is yanking
at the sheet;
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To a windy, tossing anchorage where yawls and
ketches ride,
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Oh I'l be going, going, until I meet the tide.
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And first I'll hear the sea-wind, the mewing
of the gulls,
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The clucking, sucking of the sea about the rusty
hulls,
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The songs at the capstan at the hooker warping
out,
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And then the heart of me'll know I'm there or
thereabout.
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Oh I am sick of brick and stone, the heart of
me is sick,
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For windy green, unquiet sea, the realm of Moby
Dick;
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And I'll be going, going, from the roaring of
the wheels,
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For a wind's in the heart of me, a fire's in
my heels.
John Masefield
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