Georgian Poetry 1913-15 Part 25

The skylark soars the freshening shower to hail, And the meek daisy holds aloft her pail, And Spring all radiant by the wayside pale Sets up her rock and reel.

See how she weaves her mantle fold on fold, Hemming the woods and carpeting the wold.

Her warp is of the green, her woof the gold, The spinning world her wheel.

THE LOST ONES

Somewhere is music from the linnets' bills, And thro' the sunny flowers the bee-wings drone, And white bells of convolvulus on hills Of quiet May make silent ringing, blown Hither and thither by the wind of showers, And somewhere all the wandering birds have flown; And the brown breath of Autumn chills the flowers.

But where are all the loves of long ago?

O little twilight ship blown up the tide, Where are the faces laughing in the glow Of morning years, the lost ones scattered wide.

Give me your hand, O brother, let us go Crying about the dark for those who died.

JOHN MASEFIELD

THE 'WANDERER'

All day they loitered by the resting ships, Telling their beauties over, taking stock; At night the verdict left my messmates' lips, 'The 'Wanderer' is the finest ship in dock.'

I had not seen her, but a friend, since drowned, Drew her, with painted ports, low, lovely, lean, Saying, ''The Wanderer', clipper, outward bound, The loveliest ship my eyes have ever seen--

'Perhaps to-morrow you will see her sail.

She sails at sunrise': but the morrow showed No 'Wanderer' setting forth for me to hail; Far down the stream men pointed where she rode,

Rode the great trackway to the sea, dim, dim, Already gone before the stars were gone.

I saw her at the sea-line's smoky rim Grow swiftly vaguer as they towed her on.

Soon even her masts were hidden in the haze Beyond the city; she was on her course To trample billows for a hundred days; That afternoon the norther gathered force,

Blowing a small snow from a point of east.

'Oh, fair for her,' we said, 'to take her south.'

And in our spirits, as the wind increased, We saw her there, beyond the river mouth,

Setting her side-lights in the wildering dark, To glint upon mad water, while the gale Roared like a battle, snapping like a shark, And drunken seamen struggled with the sail;

While with sick hearts her mates put out of mind Their little children left astern, ash.o.r.e, And the gale's gathering made the darkness blind, Water and air one intermingled roar.

Then we forgot her, for the fiddlers played, Dancing and singing held our merry crew; The old ship moaned a little as she swayed.

It blew all night, oh, bitter hard it blew!

So that at midnight I was called on deck To keep an anchor-watch: I heard the sea Roar past in white procession filled with wreck; Intense bright frosty stars burned over me,

And the Greek brig beside us dipped and dipped White to the muzzle like a half-tide rock, Drowned to the mainmast with the seas she shipped; Her cable-swivels clanged at every shock.

And like a never-dying force, the wind Roared till we shouted with it, roared until Its vast vitality of wrath was thinned, Had beat its fury breathless and was still.

By dawn the gale had dwindled into flaw, A glorious morning followed: with my friend I climbed the fo'c's'le-head to see; we saw The waters hurrying sh.o.r.ewards without end.

Haze blotted out the river's lowest reach; Out of the gloom the steamers, pa.s.sing by, Called with their sirens, hooting their sea-speech; Out of the dimness others made reply.

And as we watched there came a rush of feet Charging the fo'c's'le till the hatchway shook.

Men all about us thrust their way, or beat, Crying, 'The 'Wanderer'! Down the river! Look!'

I looked with them towards the dimness; there Gleamed like a spirit striding out of night A full-rigged ship unutterably fair, Her masts like trees in winter, frosty-bright.

Foam trembled at her bows like wisps of wool; She trembled as she towed. I had not dreamed That work of man could be so beautiful, In its own presence and in what it seemed.

'So she is putting back again,' I said.

'How white with frost her yards are on the fore!'

One of the men about me answer made, 'That is not frost, but all her sails are tore,

'Torn into tatters, youngster, in the gale; Her best foul-weather suit gone.' It was true, Her masts were white with rags of tattered sail Many as gannets when the fish are due.

Beauty in desolation was her pride, Her crowned array a glory that had been; She faltered tow'rds us like a swan that died, But although ruined she was still a queen.

'Put back with all her sails gone,' went the word; Then, from her signals flying, rumour ran, 'The sea that stove her boats in killed her third; She has been gutted and has lost a man.'

So, as though stepping to a funeral march, She pa.s.sed defeated homewards whence she came Ragged with tattered canvas white as starch, A wild bird that misfortune had made tame.

She was refitted soon: another took The dead man's office; then the singers hove Her capstan till the snapping hawsers shook; Out, with a bubble at her bows, she drove.

Again they towed her seawards, and again We, watching, praised her beauty, praised her trim, Saw her fair house-flag flutter at the main, And slowly saunter seawards, dwindling dim;

And wished her well, and wondered, as she died, How, when her canvas had been sheeted home, Her quivering length would sweep into her stride, Making the greenness milky with her foam.

But when we rose next morning, we discerned Her beauty once again a shattered thing; Towing to dock the 'Wanderer' returned, A wounded sea-bird with a broken wing.

A spar was gone, her rigging's disarray Told of a worse disaster than the last; Like draggled hair dishevelled hung the stay, Drooping and beating on the broken mast.

Half-mast upon her flagstaff hung her flag; Word went among us how the broken spar Had gored her captain like an angry stag, And killed her mate a half-day from the bar.

She pa.s.sed to dock upon the top of flood.

An old man near me shook his head and swore: 'Like a bad woman, she has tasted blood-- There'll be no trusting in her any more.'