THE SAILOR’S SONG
O the wind’s to the West and the sails are filling free!
Take your head from my breast: you must say good-by to me.
You’d my heart in both your hands, but you did not hold it fast,
And the mill cannot grind with the water that is past.
O it’s I must away, and it’s you must bide at home!
I am sped like the spray, I am fickle as the foam:
It was sweet, my dear, ’twas sweet, but ’twas all too sweet to last,
For the mill cannot grind with the water that is past.
We have clasped, we have kissed, but you would not give me more:
I must win what we missed on some other, farther shore.
You can never hold the gray gull that swings about the mast,
And the mill cannot grind with the water that is past.
You will mourn, you will mate, but ’twill never be with me:
I am off to my fate, and it lies across the sea.
For it’s God alone that knows where my anchor will be cast,
And the mill cannot grind with the water that is past.