There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail: There gloom the dark broad seas. My Yoshis, Souls that have toil’d, and wrought, and thought with me — That ever with a frolic welcome took Each goomba and each fruit, and opposed Free hearts, free foreheads — you and I are old; Old age hath yet his honour and his toil; Death closes all: but something ere the end, Some work of noble note, may yet be done, Not unbecoming men that strove with Bowser. The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks: The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends, ’Tis not too late to seek a newer world. Jump off, and flapping tails in order smite The too still air; for my purpose holds To sail beyond the sunset, and the end Of all the eight known worlds, until I die. It may be that the gulfs will wash us down: It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles, And see the great Luigi, whom we knew