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Elegy written on a Suburban Sailing Club

    The airhorn tolls the knell of parting day
       The Laser fleet drifts slowly to the bank
    The sailors drop and fold their sails away
       And leave the lake to darkness and to gulls
    Now fades the glimm'ring landscape on the sight, 
       And all the air a solemn stillness holds, 
    For there's been little wind all eve'
       And many homeward went without a race
    The rock of kinetics, the pump of mains'l
       And all that roll tacks, all that windshifts gave, 
    Awaits alike th' inevitable score. 
       The Aero has the winning time once more.