The Ghost Ships

Below the bellowing gale,
Below the turbulent tide,
Are sailors asleep at the sail
Of vessels we dreamt to have died.

They rest in the dark of the deep
While above them the winds beat the hulls
Of ships the hurricanes sweep
To their beds on the shattering shoals.

They sleep through the sobs from the men,
Who manning the agonized ships
Pray to them time and again
With moans from their maundering lips.

They sleep on a bathyal bed
With eyes that are blind to new woes
And blind to the mornings that bled
Their blood upon shallows and floes.

They rest with their hands at the line,
With hands on halyard and helm;
They dream of their days on the brine –
These ghosts of the neritic realm.

Below lies a spectral race,
Below the mutinous sea,
Awaiting the call to retrace
Their paths on the turbulent sea.