Then through the horror of it, like a clear
    Sweet wind among the stars,
    I felt the lift
    And drive of heart and will
    Working their miracles until
    Spent muscles tensed again to offer all
    In one transcendent gift.

    III

    A sudden flood of moonlight drenched the sea,
    Pointing the scene in sharp, strong black and white. 
    Sumter came shouldering through the night,
    Battered and grim. 
    The curve of ships shook off their dim
    Vague outlines of a dream;
    And stood, patient as death,
    So certain in their pride,
    So satisfied
    To wait
    The slow inevitableness of Fate.

    Close, where the channel
    Narrowed to the bay,
    The Housatonic lay
    Black on the moonlit tide,
    Her wide
    High sweep of spars
    Flaunting their arrogance among the stars.

    Darkness again,
    Swift-winged and absolute,
    Gulping the stars,
    Folding the ships and sea,
    Holding us waiting, mute. 
    Then, slowly in the void,
    There grew a certainty
    That silenced fear. 
    The very air
    Was stirring to the march of Destiny.

    One blinding second out of endless time
    Fell, sundering the night. 
    I saw the Housatonic hurled,
    A ship of light,
    Out of a molten sea,
    Hang an unending pulse-beat,
    Glowing, stark;
    While the hot clouds flung back a sullen roar. 
    Then all her pride, so confident and sure,
    Went reeling down the dark.

    Out of the blackness wave on livid wave
    Leapt into being—­thundered to our feet;
    Counting the moments for us, beat by beat,
    Until the last and smallest dwindled past,
    Trailing its pallor like a winding-sheet
    Over the last crew and its chosen grave.

    IV

    Morning swirled in from the sea,
    And down by the low river-wall,
    In a long unforgettable row,
    Man faces tremulous, old;
    Terrible faces of youth,
    Broken and seared by the war,
    Where swift fire kindled and blazed
    From embers hot under the years,
    While hands gripped a cane or a crutch;
    Patient dumb faces of women,
    Mothers, sisters, and wives: 
    And the vessel hull-down in the sea,
    Where the waters, just stirring from sleep,
    Lifted bright hands to the sun,
    Hiding their lusty young dead,
    Holding them jealously close
    Down to the cold harbor floor.

    There would be eight of them. 
    Here in the gathering light
    Were waiting eight women or more
    Who were destined forever to pay,
    Who never again would laugh back
    Into the eyes of life
    In the old glad, confident way. 
    Each huddled dumbly to each;
    But eyes could not lift from the sea,
    Only hands touched in the dawn.