As I went over Market Street,
   Where tall masts rake the Southern sky,
A breezy man I chanced to meet
   Who held the blue sky in his eye.
Of oceans, of the lore of ships,
   Of sudden storms and sunken rocks
His mien was eloquent.  His lips
   Held phrases for the 'Frisco docks.

On far horizons had he gazed
   O'er oceans of eternal grey,
Where never star nor beacon blazed
   To guide the lone ship on her way,
Yet here he paused -- son of the sea,
   Who many a trackless waste had crosed
And plaintively he said to me,
            "Ho, mate, I'm lost."

"Den"
Herald, 5 February 1929, p4