We sailed beneath a steady breeze, With gulls above and rolling seas. Then wind fell dead against our will, And all the sea lay still, still, still. We took the oars and pulled till dawn, Yet not a single mile was gone. No wake was raised behind the keel, Her timbers held her still, still, still. Upon the deck our shadows lay, Unchanged from dawn to dying day. Though we could move by strength of will, Our shadows rested still, still, still. One went below and did not rise, One vanished right before our eyes. Till none remained to speak of ill, And every tongue was still, still, still. They say the Fair Morning appears, As she has done for fifty years. No hands aboard to bend her will, She floats out there, still, still, still.
