I strayed about the deck, an hour,
Under a cloudy moonless sky; and
In at the windows, watched my friends at table,
Or playing cards, or standing in the doorway,
Or coming out into the darkness.
No one could see me. I would have thought of them—Heedless, within a week of battle—in pity,
Pride in their strength and in the weight and
And link’d beauty of bodies, and pity
This gay machine of splendour ‘ld soon be broken,
Thought little of, pashed, scattered, . . . Only, always,
I could but see them—against the
Like coloured shadows, thinner than filmy glass,
Slight bubbles, fainter than the wave’s faint light,
That broke to phosphorus out in the night,
Perishing things and strange ghosts—soon to
To other ghosts—this one, or that or I.
