Fiddler’s Green
Never again shall we beat out to sea
In rain and mist and sleet like bitter tears,
And watch the harbour beacons fade a-lee,
And people all the sea-room with our fears.
Our toil is done. No more, no more do we
Square the slow yards and stagger on the sea.
No more for us the white and windless day
Undimmed, unshadowed, where the weed drifts by
And leaden fish pass, rolling, at their play,
And changeless suns glide up a changeless sky,
Our watch is done; and never more shall we
Whistle a wind across a fest’ring sea,
Cities we saw: white wall and glinting dome,
And palm-fringed islands gleaming on the blue.
To us more fair the kindly sights of home—
The climbing streets and windows shining true.
Our voyage is done, and never more shall we
Reef bucking topsails on a tossing sea.
Wonders we knew and beauty in far ports;
Laughter and peril round the swinging deep;
The wrath of God; the pomp of pagan courts...
The rocks sprang black!... and we awoke from sleep!
Our task is done; and never more shall we
Square the slow yards and stagger on the sea.
Here are the hearts we love, the lips we know,
The hands of seafarers who came before.
The eyes that wept for us, a night ago,
Are laughing now that we shall part no more.
All care is past; and never more shall we
Make sail at daybreak for the grievous sea.
“At a place called Fiddler’s Green, there do all honest Mariners take their pleasure after death; and there are Admirals with their dear Ladies, and Captains of lost voyages with the Sweethearts of their youth, and tarry-handed Sailormen singing in cottage gardens.”
