South of Guardafui with a dark tide flowing
We hailed two ships with tattered canvas bent to the monsoon,
Hung betwixt the outer sea and pale surf showing
Where dead cities of Libya lay bleaching in the moon.
‘ Oh whither be ye sailing with torn sails broken?’
‘ We sail, we sail for Sheba, at Suliman's behest,
With carven silver phalli for the ebony maids of Ophir
From brown-skinned baharias of Arabia the Blest.’
‘ Oh whither be ye sailing, with your dark flag flying?’
‘ We sail, with creaking cedar, towards the Northern Star.
The helmsman singeth wearily, and in our hold are lying
A hundred slaves in shackles from the marts of Zanzibar.’
‘ Oh whither be ye sailing...?’
‘ Alas, we sail no longer:
Our hulls are wrack, our sails are dust, as any man might know.
And why should you torment us?... Your iron keels are stronger
Than ghostly ships that sailed from Tyre a thousand years ago.’