By dawn the gale had dwindled into flaw, A glorious morning followed: with my friend I climbed the fo’c’s’le-head to see; we saw The waters hurrying shorewards without end. Haze blotted out the river’s lowest reach; Out of the gloom the steamers, passing by, Called with their sirens, hooting their sea-speech; Out of the dimness others made reply. And as we watched, there came a rush of feet Charging the fo’c’s’le till the hatchway shook. Men all about us thrust their way, or beat, Crying, “The _Wanderer_! Down the river! Look!” I looked with them towards the dimness; there Gleamed like a spirit striding out of night, A full-rigged ship unutterably fair, Her masts like trees in winter, frosty-bright. Foam trembled at her bows like wisps of wool; She trembled as she towed. I had not dreamed That work of man could be so beautiful, In its own presence and in what it seemed. “So, she is putting back again,” I said. “How white with frost her yards are on the fore.” One of the men about me answer made, “That is not frost, but all her sails are tore, “Torn into tatters, youngster, in the gale; Her best foul-weather suit gone.” It was true, Her masts were white with rags of tattered sail Many as gannets when the fish are due. Beauty in desolation was her pride, Her crowned array a glory that had been; She faltered tow’rds us like a swan that died, But although ruined she was still a queen. “Put back with all her sails gone,” went the word; Then, from her signals flying, rumour ran, “The sea that stove her boats in killed her third; She has been gutted and has lost a man.” So, as though stepping to a funeral march, She passed defeated homewards whence she came, Ragged with tattered canvas white as starch, A wild bird that misfortune had made tame. She was refitted soon: another took The dead man’s office; then the singers hove Her capstan till the snapping hawsers shook; Out, with a bubble at her bows, she drove. Again they towed her seawards, and again We, watching, praised her beauty, praised her trim, Saw her fair house-flag flutter at the main, And slowly saunter seawards, dwindling dim; And wished her well, and wondered, as she died, How, when her canvas had been sheeted home, Her quivering length would sweep into her stride, Making the greenness milky with her foam. But when we rose next morning, we discerned Her beauty once again a shattered thing; Towing to dock the _Wanderer_ returned, A wounded sea-bird with a broken wing. A spar was gone, her rigging’s disarray Told of a worst disaster than the last; Like draggled hair dishevelled hung the stay, Drooping and beating on the broken mast.