What oldworld son of thine,
Made drunk with death as wine,
Hath drunk the bright sea's brine
⁠With lips of laughter?
Thy blood they drink; but he
Who hath drunken of the sea
Once deeplier than of thee
⁠Shall drink not after.

Of thee thy sons of men
Drink deep, and thirst again;
For wine in feasts, and then
⁠In fields for slaughter;
But thirst shall touch not him
Who hath felt with sense grown dim
Rise, covering lip and limb,
⁠The wan sea's water.

All fire of thirst that aches
The salt sea cools and slakes
More than all springs or lakes,