Gilbert Keith Chesterton

              The Mariner

                   The violet scent is sacred
                     Like dreams of angels bright;
                   The hawthorn smells of passion
                     Told in a moonless night.

                   But the smell is in my nostrils,
                     Through blossoms red or gold,
                   Of my own green flower unfading,
                     A bitter smell and bold.

                   The lily smells of pardon,
                     The rose of mirth; but mine
                   Smells shrewd of death and honour,
                     And the doom of Adams line.

                   The heavy scent of wine-shops
                     Floats as I pass them by,
                   But never a cup I quaff from,
                     And never a house have I.

                   Till dropped down forty fathoms,
                     I lie eternally;
                   And drink from Gods own goblet
                     The green wine of the sea.