Dodsworth by Sinclair Lewis

The S. S. Ultima, thirty-two thousand tons burden, was four hours out of New York. As the winter twilight glowered on the tangle of gloomy waves, Samuel Dodsworth was aware of the domination of the sea, of the insignificance of the great ship and all mankind. He felt lost in the round of ocean, one universal gray except for a golden gash on the western horizon. His only voyaging had been on lakes, or on the New York ferries. He felt uneasy as he stood at the after rail and saw how the rearing mass of the sea loomed over the ship and threatened it when the stern dipped--down, unbelievably down, as though she were sinking. But he felt resolute again, strong and very happy, as he swung about the deck. He had been sickish only for the first hour. The wind filled his chest, exhilarated him. Only now, the messy details of packing and farewells over, and the artificially prolonged waving to friends on the dock endured, did he feel that he was actually delivered from duty, actually going--going to strange-colored, exciting places, to do unknown and heroic things.

He hummed (for Kipling meant something to Sam Dodsworth which no Shelley could, nor Dante)--he hummed "The Gipsy Trail": Follow the Romany patteran North where the blue bergs sail, And the bows are gray with the frozen spray, And the masts are shod with mail. Follow the Romany patteran West to the sinking sun, Till the junk-sails lift through the houseless drift, And the East and the West are one. Follow the Romany patteran East where the silence broods By a purple wave on an opal beach In the hush of the Mahim woods.