And the wind rose in the morning sky,

And one was rigged for a long journey.

The first ship turned towards the west,

Over the sea, the running sea,

And by the wind was all possessed

And carried to a rich country.

The second turned towards the east,

Over the sea, the quaking sea,

And the wind hunted it like a beast

To anchor in captivity.

The third ship drove towards the north,

Over the sea, the darkening sea,

But no breath of wind came forth,

And the decks shone frostily.

The northern sky rose high and black

Over the proud unfruitful sea,

East and west the ships came back

Happily or unhappily:

But the third went wide and far

Into an unforgiving sea

Under a fire-spilling star,

And it was rigged for a long journey.

Songs
65° N.

My sleep is made cold

By a recurrent dream

Where all things seem

Sickeningly to poise

On emptiness, on stars

Drifting under the world.

When waves fling loudly

And fall at the stern,

I am wakened each dawn

Increasingly to fear

Sail-stiffening air,

The birdless sea.

Light strikes from the ice:

Like one who near death

Savours the serene breath,

I grow afraid,

Now the bargain is made,

That dream draws close.

70° N.
Fortunetelling.

“You will go a long journey,

In a strange bed take rest,

And a dark girl will kiss you

As softly as the breast

Of an evening bird comes down

Covering its own nest.

“She will cover your mouth

Lest memory exclaim

At her bending face,

Knowing it is the same

As one who long since died

Under a different name.”

75° N.
Blizzard

Suddenly clouds of snow

Begin assaulting the air,

As falling, as tangled

As a girl’s thick hair.

Some see a flock of swans,

Some a fleet of ships

Or a spread winding-sheet,

But the snow touches my lips

And beyond all doubt I know

A girl is standing there

Who will take no lovers

Till she winds me in her hair.

Above 80° N.

“A woman has ten claws,”

Sang the drunken boatswain;

Farther than Betelgeuse,

More brilliant than Orion

Or the planets Venus and Mars,

The star flames on the ocean;

“A woman has ten claws,”

Sang the drunken boatswain.

XXXII

Waiting for breakfast, while she brushed her hair

Waiting for breakfast, while she brushed her hair,

I looked down at the empty hotel yard

Once meant for coaches. Cobblestones were wet,

But sent no light back to the loaded sky,

Sunk as it was with mist down to the roofs.

Drainpipes and fire-escape climbed up

Past rooms still burning their electric light:

I thought: Featureless morning, featureless night.

Misjudgment: for the stones slept, and the mist

Wandered absolvingly past all it touched,

Yet hung like a stayed breath; the lights burnt on,

Pin-points of undisturbed excitement; beyond the glass

The colourless vial of day painlessly spilled

My world back after a year, my lost lost world

Like a cropping deer strayed near my path again,