Her path was on the briny deep; Yet no white sail propell'd her course, Nor measured oar with graceful sweep Urged her to stem the billow's force; Self-moved, with fleecy track she past, Disdaining in her pride To woo the breeze or shun the blast, Or wait the rolling tide;...

You're out of your everloving mind!

Ocra, this has a round green stem, which rises straight up to ten or twelve foot high.

In those days there was a word trashy, now almost lost to the world. My dear Aunt Charlotte used that epithet when, in her feminine way, she swore at people she did not like.