The speaker imagines himself setting out on a last sea voyage, passing through “Golden Gates” toward “Golden Isles”—a hushed, golden-lit image that feels like slipping away from life itself. But there is no joy in it. Those left behind seem to smile, yet he refuses to join them, “steer without smiling, through the sea of smiles.” The endless repetition of isle after isle, sea after sea, suggests an aimless drifting rather than a hopeful journey home.
What comes through most is a profound weariness. He looks back and admits, “I have been young, and I have counted friends,” but that time is gone. Sailing on now feels pointless, “too late, too late” for any new beginning. The central question, “Why should I sail, why should the breeze?” is not asked in anger, but in a flat, resigned voice. The whole poem carries the stillness of someone who has stopped expecting anything from the horizon. He is, as he calls himself, a hopeless sailor—not drowning in despair, just moving without purpose into a quiet, golden distance.