Below the skylight little dribbles crept
Along the painted woodwork, glistening, slow,
Following the roll and dripping, never fast,
But dripping on the quiet form below,
Like passing time talking to time long past.
And all night long "Ai, ai!" went the wind's blast,
And creaming water swished below the pale,
Unheeding body stretched beneath the sail.
At dawn they sewed him up, and at eight bells
They bore him to the gangway, wading deep,