Far from the sea and from fine war,
Which love hauled with him now that they were lost,
The blind old buccaneer was trudging
The cloddy roads of the English countryside.
Barked at by the farmhouse curs,
The butt of all the village lads,
In sickly and broken sleep he stirred
The black dust in the wayside ditches.
He knew that golden beaches far away
Kept hidden for him his own treasure,
So cursing fate’s not worth the breath;
You too on golden beaches far away
Keep for yourself an incorruptible treasure:
Hazy, many-peopled death.