Here are our thoughts, voyagers' thoughts,

 here not the land, firm land, alone appears.

 

The sky o'erarches here,

   we feel the ondulating deck beneath our feet.

We feel the long pulsation,

             ebb and flow of endless motion,

              the tones of unseen mystery,

     the vague and vast suggestions of the briny world,  the liquid-flowing syllables,

the perfume, the faint creaking of the cordage,   the melancoly rhytm, the boundless vista,

 

and the horizon far and dim are all here,

 

                     And this is the Ocean's poem.

 

                                                Walt Whitman

                                                 (1819-1892)