So, you are lost to me.

Ah you, you ear of corn straight lying,

What food is here for the darkly flying

Fowls of the Afterwards?

White bread afloat on the waters,

Cast out by the hand that scatters

Food untowards,

Will you come back when the tide turns?

After many days? My heart burns

To know.

Will you come back after many days

To say your say as a traveller says

More marvel than woe?

Drift then, for the soundless birds,

As fish, in their shadow-waved herds,

To approach you.

Drift then, bread cast out;

Drift, lest I fall in doubt

And reproach you.

For you are lost to me!