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.
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