To and Fro

With guiding glimmer now cloud-concealed,
And destiny having bid me pass on,
The anchor has torn free, the compass is lost,
Shores recoil, and the sun withholds the dawn.

Softly, a beckoning sound drifts from far aft;
Perhaps a port... perhaps a siren's song.

Maybe I should follow, or just idly drift
Either way I sail blindly without star or sun.