He preached upon “Breadth” till it argued him narrow —
The Broad are too broad to define
And of “Truth” until it proclaimed him a Liar —
The Truth never flaunted a Sign —

Simplicity fled from his counterfeit presence
As Gold the Pyrites would shun —
What confusion would cover the innocent Jesus
To meet so enabled a Man!

Row ye well; for my purpose stands,
And I am weary of meadowlands. 
I'm sick of sowing and reaping folk, 
Of arled herdsmen and beasts in yoke. 

My arms are rusty, my silken gear 
I've bartered for kisses not warm or dear; 
The kisses fail me, my gold being spent, 
And I go on the path the old gods went. 

Oh, fair are the women of stead and town, 
But softer heart 'neath a vadmal gown 
Has beaten for me, and eyes more fair 
Have smiled for me under unbound hair. 

But it comes to me, as it comes to all,
That I am weary of folk in hall,
That laughter of women falls on my ear 
As cold as the splatter of water clear. 

It comes to me from the board to rise 
As the old gods did, with unloving eyes,
When they sat at the feast and they drank brown ale, 
And they heard the wind through a flapping sail. 

And gold though the trees of Glasir stood, 
And bold though the vaunt of the giant brood, 
They passed from fray and they passed from feast,
And all the tale of their greatness ceased. 

They were gods, but they knew what the strong sea says, 
To men grown weary of easy days; 
They were gods, and answered a dearer call 
Than the voices of folk that loved them all. 

What signs were set in the Norland sky 
I know not. They followed, and so will I, 
For portent above or for sign below 
There's none will pause when the sea-winds blow. 

We'll out and away on the calling sea, 
And the wind shall take us where we would be,
Till we lose all knowledge of star or breeze, 
And push our helm into shoreless seas,

Where the sleeping girth of the Midgards-orm 
Lies round the earth, till the last great storm 
Breaks on the homesteads, and faring-folk,
And the world grows dim towards Ragnarok. 

Till the Twilight come, and our oar-blades fail,
On the outland seas we will set our sail,
And talk with the gods that we chance to meet 
Of the voice that called to their wayward feet. 

Though we met no gods and we saw no star, 
And drifted, alive, where the dead seas are,
Yet our path were safer, our guide more kind 
Than paths and voices we leave behind. 

We are well away, and content were I 
To sail for ever, and never die!