On well-soaked sand I’ve walked while waves there rolled,

In countless California coastal scenes,

And Oregon’s broad beaches, in my teens,

I’ve combed while friends would surf to spite the cold.

With anglers of the East I never trolled,

Yet I was not unversed, by any means,

In the Atlantic side, which magazines

And books acclaimed, but then Winslow of old,

Through his marine works, avant-garde emprise,

And strokes of insight, showed far more than pen

Or print had told what great displays may rise

On a lee shore, like that at Prout’s Neck when

Great gales strike sails, and still I sense their size,

Though he’s now dead past five score years and ten.