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THE MORNING STAR.

This proud ship is the Morning Star,
She is built of solid oak beams.
A smell of varnish and fresh boiled tar,
With brass that in sunshine gleams.
Her masts and rigging tell of ancient skills,
Sails unfurled awaiting a breeze.
Bellowing canvas at long last fills,
And her bows plough furrows in the seas.
A darkening sky a foreboding of storms,
With a hush distressing the soul.
Saint Anselm plays with fire, and forms,
Rain and thunder engulfing the whole.
Waves break over those bows of oak,
Men shudder and fight for a hold.
Many a prayer for calm was spoke,
Tall tales of despair were told.
Three days and nights, seas kept at bay,
Then calm and a time for sleep.
Sail makers repairs took many a day,
They were saved from that yawning deep.
The Morning Star is outward bound,
Chile is the course we've set,
Pass we not Cape Horn, safe and sound,
Those fathoms will be our yet.
Clear skies indeed with nary a cloud,
Heat and sickness is our lot.
Gazing at mast's that stand so proud,
Eyes blinded by a sun so hot.
This Maiden Voyage of the Morning Star,
An opus of men's iron will.
Shall we reach that land so far,
Lying here becalmed and still.
Sea-way has come at long last,
A movement, A ripple of sales.
Taking us on to the icy blast,
Of the Horns most fearsome gales.
We are past the Horn, No dreaded storm,
With sea as calm as a pond.
The Morning Star, is much in form.
For together we have forged a bond.
Homeward bound, cargo is filled,
Hearts beat higher with hope.
Loved one's waiting, need is stilled,
Hands blistered by the pull on rope.
Gliding into port sails are trimmed,
Shouts of command are heard
The memories of hardships strangely dimmed,
As Morning Star is likened to a bird.

Bernard Shaw.