There is a memory stays upon old ships,
A weightless cargo in the musty hold,-
Of bright lagoons and prow-caressing lips,
Of stormy midnights,-and a tale untold. ...
Another day of toil and strife,
Another page so white,
Within that fateful Log of Life
That I and all must write;
Another page without a stain
To make of as I may,
That done, I shall not see again
Until the Judgment Day.
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