About This Land Moves Many a Sad-Eyed Ghost

About this land moves many a sad-eyed ghost;
And there is wail of weeping all night long.
And sounds by day of melancholy song:
Weird is the land, and beautiful, almost;
But wrecks of mighty ships strew thick the coast,
Though now the sea looks innocent of wrong,
And low, soft waves the deep sea-caverns throng,
Where sirens sing, and Death waits at his post.

Rise, rise, my soul, that we may strive with fate,
And flee the baneful beauty which delays
Us through warm, weeping nights and hectic days;
Spread sail and steer where fresh life may await.
But, ah, what words sigh down these trackless ways, —
What words but these: "Too late — Too late — Too late"?