Who saw the ship going down to the sea
With her topsails sheeted home, and her spanker
Swelling like a course, foam along the lee,
And the crew on the tackle of the anchor?
Who saw her running off from the land,
Wind blowing strong, steering true for the light-ship,
But went away wishing he might command
Some future day such a tall, such a tight ship?
Came she never back again to that port?
Long did they wait, watching out at eve and morn.
Last was she seen hove-to with canvas short
By an eastward bounder scudding past the Horn.
Who saw her sink that midnight in the storm?
Where does she lie, rig-tangled and hull-broken?
Sails she, perhaps, a ghostly, gliding form,
That silent sea where ships are never spoken?