In the poppy-field west;
Then veer and settle and sink
As a gull to her nest.

Wind,
Away, away!
And hurry your phantom kind
Through the gates of day,

Or ever the king's dark cup
With its studs and spars
Be inverted, and earth look up
To the shuddering stars.

Blaring and triumphing now,
Now quailing and lone,
Thou, thou, thou
Of the joys unknown!

Unknown and wild, wild,
Where the merrymen be,
Sink to sleep, soul of a child,
Slumber, thou sea!

All this his fiddle plays,
And many a thing
As strange, when his mood so lays
The bow to the string.

Sleepless! He never sleeps