_Forgael_ [_who has remained at the tiller_]. There! there! They come! Gull, gannet, or diver, But with a man’s head, or a fair woman’s. They hover over the masthead awhile To wait their friends, but when their friends have come They’ll fly upon that secret way of theirs, One—and one—a couple—five together. And now they all wheel suddenly and fly To the other side, and higher in the air, They’ve gone up thither, friend’s run up by friend; They’ve gone to their beloved ones in the air, In the waste of the high air, that they may wander Among the windy meadows of the dawn. But why are they still waiting? Why are they Circling and circling over the masthead? Ah! now they all look down—they’ll speak of me What the ever-living put into their minds, And of that shadowless unearthly woman At the world’s end. I hear the message now. But it’s all mystery. There’s one that cries, ‘From love and hate.’ Before the sentence ends Another breaks upon it with a cry, ‘From love and death and out of sleep and waking.’ And with the cry another cry is mixed, ‘What can we do, being shadows?’ All mystery, And I am drunken with a dizzy light. But why do they still hover overhead? Why are you circling there? Why do you linger? Why do you not run to your desire? Now that you have happy winged bodies. Being too busy in the air, and the high air, They cannot hear my voice. But why that circling? [_The _Sailors_ have returned, DECTORA is with them. She is dressed in pale green, with copper ornaments on her dress, and has a copper crown upon her head. Her hair is dull red._ _Forgael_ [_turning and seeing her_]. Why are you standing with your eyes upon me? You are not the world’s core. O no, no, no! That cannot be the meaning of the birds. You are not its core. My teeth are in the world, But have not bitten yet. _Dectora._ I am a queen, And ask for satisfaction upon these Who have slain my husband and laid hands upon me. _Forgael._ I’d set my hopes on one that had no shadow,— Where do you come from? who brought you to this place? Why do you cast a shadow? Answer me that. _Dectora._ Would that the storm that overthrew my ships, And drowned the treasures of nine conquered nations, And blew me hither to my lasting sorrow, Had drowned me also. But, being yet alive, I ask a fitting punishment for all That raised their hands against him. _Forgael._ There are some That weigh and measure all in these waste seas— They that have all the wisdom that’s in life, And all that prophesying images Made of dim gold rave out in secret tombs; They have it that the plans of kings and queens Are dust on the moth’s wing; that nothing matters But laughter and tears—laughter, laughter, and tears— That every man should carry his own soul Upon his shoulders.