There are leagues of waves to cross first. We set forth
in July, when the days will hold all we need:
ships, men, ropes, swear-words, stinks, the sun above all,
beds, chairs, two trumpets, twelve footmen, a chaplain,
six pages, a chirurgeon, one more fellow
who can dip a pen, write our way in and out.
— Matthew Francis, from "Muscovy"
The Forward Book of Poetry 2014