When , of old, a chief died in the North,
Then they wrapped him close in fighting dress,
Laid his life-worn weapons him beside,
And, with stern and silent tenderness,
In a boat wide-bosomed on the tide,
Placed his death-cold body, pushed him forth
Thence to drift at will of wind and fate,
Till at last he found the Ultimate.

Amply weaponed so, with courage grim,
Prone along my death-boat, like to him
I would day-long rock and roam and wait
For a subtle turn of tide and sea,
For a gust of wind to break and blow
Love and land and life away from me;
Favoring, until I glide and go
Past each bourn and billow-boundary
To the waters lying round my fate,
To the windless, unoared Ultimate.