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Here, Sailor: Poem by Walt Whitman

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WHAT ship, puzzled at sea, cons for the true reckoning?
Or, coming in, to avoid the bars, and follow the channel, a perfect
pilot needs?
Here, sailor! Here, ship! take aboard the most perfect pilot,
Whom, in a little boat, putting off, and rowing, I, hailing you,
offer.

Analysis of this poem
  • sea
  • ship

More verses by Walt Whitman

  • I Thought I Was Not Alone
  • Despairing Cries
  • Out Of The Rolling Ocean, The Crowd
  • Among The Multitude
  • Old Ireland

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