Who bears the burning memory at her throat,

Of barque and sloop and brilliant brigantine.

The epic chanted to each sounding cave

Is all of fleets gone down by lonely shores,—

The shining spars, the sails, the light they gave,

Now scattered darkly on her grievous floors;—

And all the sea's long moan is like a sigh

For ruined ships remembered where they lie.

[29]

[29]

CHORUS

Always it was the old songs moved us most,

For always there were other voices near,

A silver singing threading like a ghost,

A thinner music than our ears could hear;

So that we sang more softly than we might,

As leaving room for some expected tone;

Our singing was half listening in the night,

For other singing drowned along our own,

And always there was silence at the end,

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