And now the end came o'er the water's womb
Like the last great day that's yet to come.
With prayers in vain and curses in vain,
The White Ship sundered on the midmain:
And what were men and what was a ship,
Were toys and splinters in the sea's grip.
I, Berold, was down in the sea;
And passing strange though the thing may be,
Of dreams then known I remember me.
Blithe is the shout on Harfleur's strand
When morning lights the sails to land:
And blithe is Honfleur's echoing gloam
When mothers call the children home:
And high do the bells of Rouen beat
When the Body of Christ goes down the street.
These things and the like were heard and shown
In a moment's trance 'neath the sea alone;
And when I rose, 'twas the sea did seem,
And not these things, to be all in a dream.
The ship was gone and the crowd was gone,
And the deep shuddered and the moon shone: