Thither in the stormy sunset
    Will the Master sail to-night;
    And the village will be silent
    When he drops below the light.

    Not a soul on all the hillside
    But will watch her when she clears,
    Dreaming of the Port o’ Strangers
    In the roadstead of the years.

    “Port o’ Strangers, Port o’ Strangers!”
    “Where away?” “On the weather bow.” 
    “Drive her down the closing distance!"... 
    That’s to-morrow, but not now.

    What imperial adventure
    Some wide morning it will be,
    Sweeping in to Lonely Haven
    From the chartless round of sea!

    How imposing a departure,
    While this little harbor smiles,
    Steering for the outer sea-rim
    With the Master of the Isles!

THE LAST WATCH

    Comrades, comrades, have me buried
    Like a warrior of the sea,
    With a flag across my breast
    And my sword upon my knee.

    Steering out from vanished headlands
    For a harbor on no chart,
    With the winter in the rigging,
    With the ice-wind in my heart,

    Down the bournless slopes of sea-room,
    With the long gray wake behind,
    I have sailed my cruiser steady
    With no pilot but the wind.

    Battling with relentless pirates
    From the lower seas of Doom,
    I have kept the colors flying
    Through the roar of drift and gloom.

    Scudding where the shadow foemen
    Hang about us grim and stark,
    Broken spars and shredded canvas,
    We are racing for the dark.

    Sped and blown abaft the sunset
    Like a shriek the storm has caught;
    But the helm is lashed to windward,
    And the sails are sheeted taut.

    Comrades, comrades, have me buried
    Like a warrior of the night. 
    I can hear the bell-buoy calling
    Down below the harbor light

    Steer in shoreward, loose the signal,
    The last watch has been cut short;
    Speak me kindly to the islesmen,
    When we make the foreign port.

    We shall make it ere the morning
    Rolls the fog from strait and bluff;
    Where the offing crimsons eastward
    There is anchorage enough.

    How I wander in my dreaming! 
    Are we northing nearer home,
    Or outbound for fresh adventure
    On the reeling plains of foam?

    North I think it is, my comrades,
    Where one heart-beat counts for ten,
    Where the loving hand is loyal,
    And the women’s sons are men;

    Where the red auroras tremble
    When the polar night is still,
    Lighting home the worn seafarers
    To their haven in the hill.

    Comrades, comrades, have me buried
    Like a warrior of the North. 
    Lower me the long-boat, stay me
    In your arms, and bear me forth;