The fishermen rowing homeward in the dusk, do not consider the stillness through which they move. So I, since feelings drown should no more ask for the safe twilight which your calm hands gave. And the night, urger of old lies winked at by stars that sentry the humped hills, should hear no secret faring-forth; time knows that bitter and sly sea, and love raises walls. Yet others who now watch my progress outward on a sea which is crueler than any word of love, may see in me the calm my passage makes, braving new water in an antique hoax; and the secure from thinking may climb safe to liners hearing small rumours of paddlers drowned near stars.
—Derek Walcott / The Harbour