Come out, come out, ye souls that serve, why will ye die?

or will ye sit and stifle in your prison-homes

dreaming of some master that holds the winds in leash

and the waves of darkness yonder in the gaunt hollow of
night?

nay, there is none that rules: all is a strife of the winds

and the night shall billow in storm full oft ere all be done.

For this is the hard doom that is laid on all of you,

to be that whereof ye dream, dreaming against your will.

But first ye must travel the many ways, and your close-
wrapt souls

must be blown thro’ with the rain that comes from the
homeless dark:

for until ye have had care of the wastes there shall be no
truce

for them nor you, nor home, but ever the ancient feud;

and the soul of man must house the cry of the darkling
waves

as he follows the ridge above the waters shuddering
towards night,

and the rains and the winds that roam anhunger’d for
some heart’s warmth.

Go: tho’ ye find it bitter, yet must ye be bare

to the wind and the sea and the night and the wail of
birds in the sky;

go: tho’ the going be hard and the goal blinded with rain

yet the staying is a death that is never soften’d with sleep.