Casket-boards of our boat all creaking Against the lapping tongue of tide, A soft journey of heartache Had my six swords and I. Across the war rent oceans And beneath the mellow moon All crooned, we few, We wash-aways, we had ****** our prayers away. Each sword aboard The vessel knew no food but thought And mused through breakfast same as supper Growing only ever more distraught. When departed we to shrouded sea From long forgotten long bemoaned Setting of the sun upon the coast, All sapient and strong These swordsmen mine. Not withered like the husks they are become, Mere chaff to rustle utterly along alone. They are dry inside, they die, Their own confusion laying waste to flesh And mother-hungry marrow. I sigh, A windy shiver running up my backbone And escaping into the endless mist and flood. The strangest glint amidst the heavens sets our course, And the grim placid seas do not reproach us For all know, All the lands of the earth, And the sea, and the sky, And every monotonous row of my oar passing by, All know these six swords, Know them truly, And know as well their coming fate. If swords these six swords were Instead of men, Then great forges would I say Lay upon that further shore: An empire of magma where all blades are fused to one. Poor dears, O my poor dead dears you do not even know the truth, And you let your brows be conquered by woe. And that is why you are my merest passenger, And why I have been bound to steer.