With guiding glimmer now cloud-concealed,
and destiny having bid me pass on,
the anchor has torn free, the compass is lost,
shores recoil, and the sun withholds the dawn.

Softly, a beckoning sound drifts from far aft;
perhaps a port... perhaps a siren's song.

Maybe I should follow, or just idly drift
either way I sail blindly without star or sun.