Classic Poem

On crimsoned couch, the Sun once more
At evening's gate lay dying;
Above the sad sea's sullen roar
The grieving winds were crying;
A bark shot from the lonely shore
With all her broad sails flying.

And they that sailed upon that ship,
No more they wept nor smiled:
No tearful eye, no trembling lip,
No supplications wild.

No sorrowing for the lessening lands,
No dread of coming ill:
They stood with folded, cold white hands
And hearts forever still.

On that illimitable sea
The ghostly vessel sped;
Out-bearing to eternity
The world's unnumbered dead.

But on the shore—so dark, so fair—
From which they swiftly parted,
Were piercing cries and mute despair
Of mortals broken-hearted.

And arms bereft, in anguish raised,
Imploring, to the skies;
And silent souls that only gazed
With steadfast, hopeless eyes.

But when the great celestial pyre
For each dead day is lighted,
Then, looming on the wall of fire
That breathless ship is sighted.

White with the dead that die each day
She holds her course alone,
Far through the closing shadows gray
Out to the dark unknown.

'Tis yesterday upon the shore;
To-day will come to-morrow,
Here and hereafter—ever more—
And so, farewell to sorrow.

Her giant shadow falls, and gray
The twilight comes, appalling;
Her cloudy sails shake out the spray,
And then—the dew is falling;
The cordage creaks, and straight we say
Hark!—how the winds are calling!