Dead men, with eyes that opened wide
With the stare of blindness--gracious Lord!
One of them groped his way abaft,
And laid his swollen hand on the wheel.
His hand that in death was clammy and damp;
His blind eyes stared at the binnacle lamp,
As if the dead hand had nerves of steel,
He altered the ship's course in spite of me
Who could only stare at him and gasp,
For I was in the nightmare's grasp.
Fiends in the air around me laughed;
But the dead man worked on all silently,
Nor noticed the ecstacy of my fears;
Yet he was a man I had known for years.
A messmate at sea, a comrade on shore,
And in jolly carouse, in wassail roar.
My holiday time with him I spent
When I was of life-blood innocent;
But he never looked or spoke to me,
But steered away from the open sea.
Towards the shore beyond the desolate strait,
Where suffering and crime had been so great.
Dead hands pulled the ropes and trimmed the sails,
But no cheery cries the night wind hails.
They worked the ship like men who slept
But steadily, oh so steadily!
They took in sail, the watch they kept,
And groped about blindly, silently.
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