The sea in its seasons Need not supply reasons For flipping and slopping, For wetness and swish, For frothing and chopping, And swirling its fish, For rising and falling And endlessly calling In tones most appealing Or groans quite appalling Which scatter its gulls And shatter ship hulls Dispensing despair Through wild windy air. For, whatever might be, The sea is the sea Which gives not a damn About beauty or fear, About life, about death, About wonder or fizz. The sea merely is.