Elegy written on a Suburban Sailing Club

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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.