Under The Sky

Far out to sea go the fishing junks, With all sails set, The tide swings gray and the clouds sway, The wind blows wet; Blows wet from the long coast lying dim As if mist-born. Far out they sail, as the stars pale, The stars of morn.

Far out to sea go the fishing junks, And I who pass Upon a deck that is vaster reck No more, alas, Of all their life, or they of mine, Than comes to this,-- That under the sky we live and die, Like all that is.