Slow, sad sails, empty of all their power,
Wagging through the trailing mists of morning.
Quiet decks, awash with fluttering foam,
Robbed of regimented hands battening
Quarter hatches, holes and starlit skylights.
Each cabin lost of all souls except phantoms
That shift in time like the absent Bosun's call.
No hurried feet clambering the rigging
For a glimpse of the dawn's early glimmer
Riding the racing white horses into the day.
Where are you now, brave, young crew?
Aboard some greater ship en route
To rich green-wrapped leeward Carib isles?
Or, sailing away upon those heavenly tides
To planes reserved for spirits beached
Upon shores far beyond this tangible earth?
The Mary Celeste, an American merchant brigantine, was discovered adrift and deserted in the mid-Atlantic Ocean on this day (on land) in 1872.
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