Sea Poems Part 11

When I am deaf with the din of strife, And blind amid despair, When I am choked with the dust of life And long for free soul-air, I will recall this sound--the sea's, And the wide horizon's hope, And the wind that blows And the phosphor snows That fall as the cleft waves ope.

When I am beaten--when I fall On the bed of black defeat, When I have hungered, and in gall Have got but shame to eat, I will remember this--the sea, And its tide as soft as sleep, And the clear night sky That heals for aye All who will trust its Deep.

A SINGHALESE LOVE LAMENT

As the cocoanut-palm That pines, my love, Away from the sound Of the planter's voice, Am I, for I hear No more resound Your song by the pearl-strewn sea!

The sun may come And the moon wax round, And in its beam My mates may rejoice, But I feast not And my heart is dumb, As I long, O long, for thee!

In the jungle-deeps, Where the cobra creeps, The leopard lies In wait for me, But O, my love, When the daylight dies There is more to my dread than he!

Harsh lonely tears That a.s.sail my eyes Are worse to bear,-- For the misery That makes them well Is the long, long years That I moan away from thee!

O again, again, In my katamaran A-keel would I push To your palmy door!

Again would I hear The heave and hush Of your song by the plantain-tree.

But far away Do I toil and crush The hopes that arise At my sick heart's core.

For never near Does it come, the day That draws me again to thee!

THE CITY

Soft and fair by the Desert's edge, And on the dim blue edge of the sea, Where white gulls wing all day and fledge Their young on the high cliff's sandy ledge, There is a city I have beheld, Sometime or where, by day or dream, I know not which, for it seems enspelled As I am by its memory.

Pale minarets of the Prophet pierce Above it into the white of the skies, And sails enchanted a thousand years Flit at its feet while fancy steers.

No face of all its faces to me Is known--no pa.s.sion of it or pain.

It is but a city by the sea, Enshrined forever beyond my eyes!

FULL TIDE

Sea-scents, wild-rose scents, Bay and barberry too, Drench the wind, the Maine wind, That gulls are dipping thro, With soft hints, sweet hints, With lull, lure and desire; With memory-wafts and mysteries, And all the ineffable histories Made when the sea and land meet, And the sun lends nuptial fire.

Sea-foam, and dream-foam, And which is which, who knows, When all day long the heart goes out To every wave that blows, That blossoms on the bright tide, Then sheds a shimmering crest And yields its tossing place to one Whose blooming is as quickly done-- For beauty is ever swift--begot Of rapture and unrest.

Sea-deeps, and soul-deeps, And where shall faith be found If not within the heart's beat Or in the surging sound Of the sea, which is the earth's heart, Beating with tireless might; Beating--tho but a tragedy Life seems on every land and sea; Beating to bring all breath, somehow, Out of despair's blight.

THE HERDING

Quietly, quietly in from the fields Of the grey Atlantic the billows come, Like sheep to the fold.

Shorn by the rocks of fleecy foam, They sink on the brown seaweed at home; And a bell, like that of a bellwether, Is scarcely heard from the buoy-- Save when they suddenly stumble together, In herded hurrying joy, Upon its guidance: then soft music From it is tolled.

Far out in the murk that follows them in Is heard the call of the fog-horn's voice, Like a shepherd's--low.

And the strays as if waiting it seem to pause And lift their heads and listen--because It is sweet from wandering ways to be driven, When we have fearless b.r.e.a.s.t.s, When all that we strayed for has been given, When no want molests Us more--no need of the tide's ebbing And tide's flow.

ON THE MAINE COAST

The rocks, lean fingers of the land, Reach out into the sea And cool themselves, all day long, In the tide drippingly.

They catch the seaweed in them And the starfish on their tips, And gulls that light And the swift flight Of swallows skimming grey and white-- And spars of broken ships.

The moon, G.o.d's perfect silver, With which He pays the world For toil and quest and day's unrest, Is washed on them and swirled.

And avidly they seize it, Then let it slip away, Only again And yet again To grasp at it--as eager men At joy no hand can stay.

SEANCE

Hovering wings of terns Over the rock-pools flutter, For the tide, ebbed far out, Seems to stumble and stutter; Seems like a spirit lost, Unable to come again Back to the wonted ways and days Of ever-wanting men.

And the moon, a medium Trance-pale, is laying her light Over its surge--till, lo, It turns from the deep and night.

And the spirit-word it brings Is the message of all time, That doubt is only the ebb of faith, Which ever reflows sublime!

A SIDMOUTH LAD

Salcombe Hill and four hills more Lie to leftward of this sh.o.r.e.

On the right Peak Hill arises Ever rises, sickening, o'er.

Two score rotting years I've seen Sidmouth sit those hills between: Only Sidmouth--and twice over Must I bide it, as I've been.

Then a churchyard hole for me, By the dull voice of the sea.

Rotting, still in Sidmouth rotting, Rotting to eternity.

WIDOWED