.
Shift in pitch
On stormy swells and liquid knells
Make sailors sick.

Keeping eyes on calm horizons are these weathered men

No longer; now
Distracted by the silent sly
Grey fog and mist

They pray for mill
Stones and a chain, a hearty chain
To stop the pitch

And drag them down
To promised calm where siren songs
Have made their graves

Free from pitch and sway.
Oh, give them that horizon red, and take away that grey!