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Standing in to the Channel, the Lizard in sight, A fortnight, at Blackwall, would see us all right, Then the breeze that was driving us fast on to you, Chopped about and right west in our teeth the gale blew.
Overhead then some swallows straight eastward flew
past; Uncaring for head-winds, they skimmed through the
blast; With their flight, onward, onward, my hopes longing
flew; How I wished for their swiftness to wing me to you.