Classic Poem

Ay, we were there at the last,
What tempest and fever had left,
For our consort capsized in the blast
That shivered our sail as a weft
Of the gossamer; ay, we were there,
Wan, scurvy-bit bodies a score,
And souls as cloudy with care
As Hamlet's at Elsinore.

On those dazzling stretches of sand
The sick fell into a chafe,
For their thoughts sought home to the land
Of shadow and rain. “Vouchsafe,
Sweet Will, that thy spells outwear
Their dolor, as oft before.”
And my sea-gown I girded fair
For Hamlet at Elsinore.

Our ghost he was lean at the best,
And his kingship keen for the wine,
But Ophelia's taffeta vest
Bore blazon of tar and brine.
Tressed she her sailor hair
With weed from the ocean floor,
And tuned on that savage air
Old snatches of Elsinore.

By the clear of the moon we played,
Till the lads unfretted their brows,
Comforted as with the shade
Of beeches, where red kine drowse
In the English lanes. Was still
A flagon of ale—no more—
And we drained it to Gentle Will,
And to Hamlet of Elsinore.