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! 

Ghost Lake's a dark lake, a deep lake and cold:
Ice black as ebony, frostily scrolled;
Far in its shadows a faint sound whirrs;
Steep stand the sentineled deep, dark firs.

A brisk sound, a swift sound, a ring-tinkle-ring;
Flit-flit—a shadow, with a stoop and a swing,
Flies from a shadow through the crackling cold.
Ghost Lake's a deep lake, a dark lake and old!

Leaning and leaning, with a stride and a stride,
Hands locked behind him, scarf blowing wide,
Jeremy Randall skates, skates late,
Star for a candle, moon for a mate.

Black is the clear glass now that he glides,
Crisp is the whisper of long lean strides,
Swift is his swaying—but pricked ears hark.
None comes to Ghost Lake late after dark!

Cecily only—yes, it is she!
Stealing to Ghost Lake, tree after tree,
Kneeling in snow by the still lake side,
Rising with feet winged, gleaming, to glide.

Dust of the ice swirls. Here is his hand.
Brilliant his eyes burn. Now, as was planned,
Arm across arm twined, laced to his side,
Out on the dark lake lightly they glide.

Dance of the dim moon, a rhythmical reel,
A swaying, a swift tune—skurr of the steel;
Moon for a candle, maid for a mate,
Jeremy Randall skates, skates late.

Black as if lacquered the wide lake lies;
Breath is a frost-fume, eyes seek eyes;
Souls are a sword-edge tasting the cold.
Ghost Lake's a deep lake, a dark lake and old!

Far in the shadows hear faintly begin
Like a string pluck-plucked of a violin,
Muffled in mist on the lake's far bound,
Swifter and swifter, a low singing sound!

Far in the shadows and faint on the verge
Of blue cloudy moonlight, see it emerge,
Flit-flit—a phantom, with a stoop and a swing…
Ah, it's a night bird, burdened of wing!

Pressed close to Jeremy, laced to his side,
Cecily Culver, dizzy you glide.
Jeremy Randall sweepingly veers
Out on the dark ice far from the piers.

"Jeremy!" "Sweetheart?" "What do you fear?"
"Nothing, my darling,—nothing is here!"
"Jeremy?" "Sweetheart?" "What do you flee?"
"Something—I know not; something I see!"

Swayed to a swift stride, brisker of pace,
Leaning and leaning, they race and they race;
Ever that whirring, that crisp sound thin
Like a string pluck-plucked of a violin;

Ever that swifter and low'singing sound
Sweeping behind them, winding them round;
Gasp of their breath now that chill flakes fret;
Ice black as ebony-blacker-like jet!

Ice shooting fangs forth—sudden—like spears;
Crackling of lightning-a roar in their ears!
Shadowy, a phantom swerves off from its prey…
No, it's a night bird flit-flits away!

Low-winging moth-owl, home to your sleep!
Ghost Lake's a still lake, a cold lake and deep
Faint in its shadows a far sound whirrs.
Black stand the ranks of its sentinel firs.