A wise man, once he is past fifty, does not befuddle his senses with strong drink, nor make violent love in the cool spring night, nor dance on his hands.
—Frans G.
I heard wordOf bellied sailcloth,Creak of oars,And gold in Eastland.Then I smelledA smell remembered:Salt of sprayAnd black-pitched boat’s keel.
Mulled ale for the frozen man,And mulled ale for the weary:For mulled ale is the body’s friendAnd makes the sick heart merry.
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