I am a Ship of Paint and slim.
My colleagues call me Ship.
Across the Sea of Paint I swim
from lip to sandy lip.

A soul is all a sailor has:
an empty tavern chair;
he knows his simple spirit as
he knows the salty air,

for both are insubstantial things,
both whim-blown by the day,
though night may give them angels' wings
and hoist them up aweigh.

But I am Ship. I roll and pitch
while sailors take their ease.
Aye, I am that fond craft with which
they furnish all the seas.

Blow, then, blow, my thoughtless crew!
Be blessed in thine ease.
Aye, I am that fond craft that you
must sail the galleries!