Their hair and their beards are grown long with the long years,
And some are too old and too wise for speaking, and some sleep.
And when the night grows cold they stir, and touch their lips
With dark-red sluggish liquor, and kindle a fire from wood
Washed up by a quiet wave from the wracked majestical ships,
The planks where the feet of the sea-captains and the ship-boys stood.
Their eyes grow silent and dark, their gnarled bodies swing
Like trees that are stript in a wind; they go mad with moon and stars,
Murmuring songs like water, and beating their hands as they sing
Of how they are fled far off from the foam of tides and the handling of bars.