Haste, in the taffrail,
Had tightened every rope
And Inishturk drove back
From spray. Night on that shore
Maddened the bolt; and men
At fire or lighted table,
Heard, as the bishop prayed,
The shipwrecked cry of sinners —
The clang of bar and spike
Rolling the timbered wine.

Far waves came back at day
To double their white dances,
As though they were still breaking
On rock. Low skies outran
The rain; but Claremen played
Backgammon in the house
And squander of their crowns
Was molten as the haze,
Blowing from the foundries
Of storm within the south.

Calm of the evening
Brought companies to boat
Or step, when tide was greener
And flocked air lay on foam.
For they had seen a tall ship
Stand to the sun in flame
Between the cloud and wave,
Trimming her golden wicks —
And wagered that she came
From Portugal or Spain.