Walt Whitman

Book XXXIV. Sands At Seventy: The Dismantled Ship

In some unused lagoon, some nameless bay,
On sluggish, lonesome waters, anchor’d near the shore,
An old, dismasted, gray and batter’d ship, disabled, done,
After free voyages to all the seas of earth, haul’d up at last and hawser’d
tight,
Lies rusting, mouldering.
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