Last modified on Mon 22 Feb 2021 07.03 EST A Grey Day Rain whitens the dead sea, From headland dim to sullen cape Grey sails creep wearily. Has found the heart; but ’t is her plan Seaward her endless course to shape. Unreal as insects that appal A drunkard’s peevish brain, O’er the grey deep the dories crawl, Four-legged, with rowers twain: Across old ocean’s vasty girth Toiling – heroic, comical! Have ever found the will! I wonder what the fishers do To keep them toiling still! I wonder how the heart of man Has patience to live out its span,