On such a night as this
    I saw the last crew go
    Out of a world too beautiful to leave. 
    Only a chosen few
    Beside the crew
    Were gathered on the pier;
    And in the ebb and flow
    Of dark and moon, we saw them fare
    Straight past the row of coffins
    Where the fifth crew lay
    Waiting their last short voyage
    Across the bay.

    And, as they went, not one among them swerved,
    But eyes went homing swiftly to the West,
    Where, faint and very few,
    The windows of the town called out to them
    Yet held them nerved
    And ready for the test. 
    Young every one, they brought life at its best. 
    In the taut stillness, not a word
    Was uttered, but one heard
    The deep slow orchestration of the night
    Swell and relapse; as swiftly, one by one,
    Cutting a silhouette against the gray,
    They rose, then dropped out softly like a dream
    Into the rocking shadows of the stream.

    A sudden grind of metal scarred the hush;
    A marsh-hen threshed the water with her wings,
    And, for a breath, the marsh life woke and throbbed. 
    Then, down beneath our feet, we caught the gleam
    Of folded water flaring left and right,
    While, with a noiseless rush,
    A shadow darker than the rest
    Drew from its fellows swarming round the quay,
    Took an oncoming breaker,
    Shook its shoulders free,
    And faced the sea.

    Then came an interval that seemed to be
    Part of eternity. 
    Years might have passed, or seconds;
    No one knew! 
    Close in the dark we huddled, each to each,
    Too stirred for speech. 
    Our senses, sharpened to an agony,
    Drew out across the water till the ache
    Was more than we could bear;
    Till eyes could almost see,
    Ears almost hear. 
    And waiting there,
    I seemed to feel the beach
    Slip from my reach,
    While all the stars went blank. 
    The smell of oil and death enveloped me,
    And I could feel
    The crouching figures straining at a crank,
    Knees under chins, and heads drawn sharply down,
    The heave and sag of shoulders,
    Sting of sweat;
    An eighth braced figure stooping to a wheel,
    Body to body in the stifling gloom,
    The sob and gasp of breath against an air
    Empty and damp and fetid as a tomb. 
    With them I seemed to reel
    Beneath the spin and heel
    When combers took them fair,
    Bruising their bodies,
    Lifting black water where
    Their feet clutched desperate at the floor.

    And as each body spent out of its ebbing store
    Of strength and hope,
    I felt the forward thrust,
    At first so sure,
    Fail in its rhythm,
    Falter slow,
    And slower—­
    Hang an endless moment—­
    Till in a rush came fear—­
    Fear of the sea, that it might win again,
    Gathering one crew more,
    Making them pay in vain.