or that you come to know dread,

     it matters not to her that you come to bloat,

     or that you come to be seawater dead.

For she's neither your friend,

or the friend of any man,

     for she'll do you bitter harm if you let her,

     and she'll do you the final under if she can.

This day without cause,

yesterday and tomorrow without end,

     his days, however many,

     now that this toil's his friend.

"Grant me wisdom while I'm there,

     and courage to whatever bear."

He crosses the rolling bar again,

then out into the great sea,

     he crosses the boiling bar again,

     each day for all to see.

His look, forward,

never to the side or around,

     his stare, fixed,

     always to the buoy's bound.

The home of home,

behind the peeling house of his staying,

     this home of home,

     ahead the heaving pew of his praying.

He crosses the rolling bar again,

then out into the great sea,

     he crosses the boiling bar again,

     each day for all to see.

This far world grants him enter, slyly,

because he chooses to dare,

     this wide world draws him enter, shyly,

     because he watches with care.

Beyond the inlet now and beyond the surf,

along the coast runs he,

     beyond the surf and south by east,