Then ashore mid the flurry of stone-washing surf! Cloud-hounds the moon worry, but light lies the turf; Lo the long dale before us! the lights at the end, Though the night darkens o'er us, bid whither to wend. Who beateth the door By the foot-smitten floor? What guests are these From over the seas? Take shield and sword For their greeting-word. Lo, lo, the dance ended!