Up a wide and murky river

Sail you now.

Rotten is the stepping of your one mast,

Strange the marking on your brow.

Into deeper waters than you ever knew

Points your prow .

Grows the way more wild,

And narrow,

And the chill creeps from your cheek-bones to your marrow.

Now turn back, impulsive heart,

Self-severed from the world apart.....

But he answers not, nor turns,

Though a fading beacon burns

And dies behind him.

Now the way gives little room

For the slowly moving oars.

Heavier drops the gloom,

And the last light on his sail

Sickens, and the golden head

Droops, and meets his chest.

No matter now - it is the best.

Grounds the prow, and he is dead.