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Updated: May 31, 2025
Lo, midst of the hall The fallow blades blended! Lo, blood on the wall! Who liveth, who dieth? O men of the sea, For peace the folk crieth; our masters are ye. Now the dale lies grey At the dawn of day; And fair feet pass O'er the wind-worn grass; And they turn back to gaze On the roof of old days. Come tread ye the oaken-floored hall of the sea!
This was a dry, warm, oaken-floored barn, lined on both sides with wheaten straw, and opening at one end into a green field and a beautiful prospect. Here, without hesitation, she ordered the cloth to be laid, and came hastily to snatch me from worse perils by water than the common dangers of the sea. Mrs.
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