Poetry is like shot-silk with many glancing colours, and every reader must find his own interpretation, according to his ability and according to his sympathy with the poet.— Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Sea Fever by John Masefield

I must down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,
And the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song and the white sail’s shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea’s face, and a grey dawn breaking.

I must down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

I must down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull’s way and the whale’s way where the wind’s like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick’s over.

I’ve never been a sailor, hardly ever been on the ocean at all, don’t even know if I’d enjoy sailing or boats at all. Nevertheless, there’s some kind of affinity or sympathy in me for the feeling of this poem. It’s the “wild call” and the “clear call” and the “vagrant gypsy life” and the “wind’s song.” Something in all that sea feverishness resonates with a wildness in me and with the gypsy in me.
Someday I may be a real gypsy. I’d love to travel. Right now I’m only a gypsy-of-the-mind.