The Last Mast
Whilst the chieftain stood beneath the mast,
the ring-prowed ship began to sway.
Afar, beyond the mournful shore,
a foe was waiting for the day.
He wore no corslet, bore no shield;
not a whit of dread was in his mood.
“Wherefore,” he asked, “should men seek solace
whilst fate still hung above the flood?”
His people besought him not to go,
but fate had wrought another way.
The mast bent low, the dark sea rose,
and every wave concealed a deed.
No foe appeared beneath the moon,
no sword disturbed the silent water.
Yet whilst the ring-prowed vessel sailed,
something followed, far behind.
And when the morning touched the mast,
the ship was there —
the chieftain was not.
Sê o primeiro