A Song Before Sailing

"Cras ingens iterabimus aequor."     Wind of the dead men's feet,     Blow down the empty street     Of this old city by the sea     With news for me!     Blow me beyond the grime     And pestilence of time!     I am too sick at heart to war     With failure any more.     Thy chill is in my bones;     The moonlight on the stones     Is pale, and palpable, and cold;     I am as one grown old.     I call from room to room     Through the deserted gloom;     The echoes are all words I know,     Lost in some long ago.     I prowl from door to door,     And find no comrade more.     The wolfish fear that children feel     Is snuffing at my heel.     I hear the hollow sound     Of a great ship coming round,     The thunder of tackle and the tread     Of sailors overhead.     That stormy-blown hulloo     Has orders for me, too.     I see thee, hand at mouth, and hark,     My captain of the dark.     O wind of the great East,     By whom we are released     From this strange dusty port to sail     Beyond our fellows' hail,     Under the stars that keep     The entry of the deep,     Thy somber voice brings up the sea's     Forgotten melodies;     And I have no more need     Of bread, or wine, or creed,     Bound for the colonies of time     Beyond the farthest prime.     Wind of the dead men's feet,     Blow through the empty street!     The last adventurer am I,     Then, world, good-by!