The Last Ship

"A ship with golden beak and oar and timbers white came gliding"

Behind all of my writings is a longing for something I do not fully understand. I have been plagued, or blessed with this feeling as long as I can remember. I cannot blame anything in my nurturing for this and can only assume it is a part of my nature, one I know is shared by others. Like anything else it comes with its good and its bad.

Certain things deeply affect me for reasons I struggle to explain. I know many others feel exactly as I do and similarly struggle to put it into words. There is a longing in the human soul for something that we lost. Some high beauty we once knew yet can only dimly remember. Our longing for the high beauty, for paradise, for Eden, for Faerië, all the result of our ancient fall in the garden. We long for what we have been barred from. Some things are too beautiful for men to look on, or to think too deeply on, without suffering a wound. There are times when a song or a story or a wind among the pines will feel like a stab in the heart. There are times you will feel a wild, desperate longing for something that you cannot even comprehend or explain to those around you. Such is the fate of men.

So much has already been said on the subject of the longing for the enchanted we all know so well. Instead of saying more, I want you to read this poem by Professor J.R.R. Tolkien, “The Last Ship”. This little poem is dear to me. I first read it 5 years ago, when I was 20 years old, right when I began to rediscover my love for everything I’ve been exploring since.

Something about this poem so perfectly encapsulates the longing for that high enchanted beauty that is just out of our reach. It calls to us yet we cannot reach it. We can only glimpse it at the twilight hours, at those times when the veil thins. We feel that the enchantment of the world is slipping away, leaving us to die among the cold ruins. We know we are doomed never to fully grasp that which we long for. At least, not yet, not until the mending of the world…

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The Last Ship

Fíriel looked out at three o’clock:
the gray night was going;
far away a golden cock
clear and shrill was crowing.
The trees were dark, and the dawn pale,
waking birds were cheeping,
a wind moved cool and frail
through dim leaves creeping.

She watched the gleam at window grow,
till the long light was shimmering
on land and leaf; on grass below
grey dew was glimmering.
Over the floor her white feet crept,
down the stair they twinkled,
through the grass they dancing stepped
all with dew besprinkled.

Her gown had jewels upon its hem,
as she ran down to the river,
and leaned upon a willow-stem,
and watched the water quiver.
A kingfisher plunged down like a stone
in a blue flash falling,
bending reeds were softly blown,
lily-leaves were sprawling.

A sudden music to her came,
as she stood there gleaming
with free hair in the morning’s flame
on her shoulders streaming.
Flutes there were, and harps were wrung,
and there was sound of singing,
like wind-voices, keen and young
and far bells ringing.

A ship with golden beak and oar
and timbers white came gliding;
swans went sailing on before,
her tall prow guiding.
Fair folk out of Elvenland
in silver-grey were rowing,
and three with crowns she saw there stand
with bright hair flowing.

With harp in hand they sang their song
to the slow oars swinging;
‘Green is the land, the leaves are long,
and the birds are singing.
Many a day with dawn of gold
this earth will lighten,
many a flower will yet unfold,
ere the cornfields whiten.

‘Then whither go ye, boatmen fair,
down the river gliding?
To twilight and to secret lair
in the great forest hiding?
To Northern isles and shores of stone
on strong swans flying,
by cold waves to dwell alone
with the white gulls crying?’

‘Nay!’ they answered. ‘Far away
on the last road faring,
leaving western havens grey,
the sea of shadow daring,
we go back to Elvenhome,
where the White Tree is growing,
and the Star shines upon the foam
on the last shore flowing.

‘To mortal fields say farewell,
Middle-earth forsaking!
In Elvenhome a clear bell
in the high tower is shaking.
Here grass fades and leaves fall,
and sun and moon whither,
and we have heard the far call
that bids us journey thither’.

The oars were stayed. They turned aside:
‘Do you hear the call, Earth-maiden?
Fíriel! Fíriel!’ they cried.
‘Our ship is not full-laden.
One more only may we bear.
Come! For your days are speeding.
Come! Earth-maiden elven-fair,
our last call heeding.’

Fíriel looked from the river bank,
one step daring;
then deep in clay her feet sank,
and she halted, staring.
Slowly the elven-ship went by
whispering through the water:
‘I cannot come!’ they heard her cry.
‘I was born Earth’s daughter!’

No jewels white her gown bore,
as she walked back from the meadow
under roof and dark door,
under the house-shadow.
She donned her smock of russet-brown,
her long hair braided,
and to her work came stepping down.
Soon the sunlight faded.

Year still after year flows
down the Seven Rivers;
cloud passes, sunlight glows,
reed and willow quivers
as morn and eve, but never more
westward ships have waded
in mortal waters as before,
and their song has faded.

- J.R.R. Tolkien