Chapter VII (2)

I saw a ship a-sailing, a-sailing, a-sailing, With emeralds and rubies and sapphires in her hold; And a bosun in a blue coat bawling at the railing, Piping through a silver call that had a chain of gold; The summer wind was failing and the tall ship rolled.

I saw a ship a-steering, a-steering, a-steering, With roses in red thread worked upon her sails; With sacks of purple amethysts, the spoils of buccaneering, Skins of musky yellow wine, and silks in bales, Her merry men were cheering, hauling on the brails.

I saw a ship a-sinking, a-sinking, a-sinking, With glittering sea-water splashing on her decks, With seamen in her spirit-room singing songs and drinking, Pulling claret bottles down, and knocking off the necks, The broken glass was chinking as she sank among the wrecks.

ST. MARY'S BELLS

It's pleasant in Holy Mary By San Marie lagoon, The bells they chime and jingle From dawn to afternoon. They rhyme and chime and mingle, They pulse and boom and beat, And the laughing bells are gentle And the mournful bells are sweet.

Oh, who are the men that ring them, The bells of San Marie, Oh, who but sonsie seamen Come in from over sea, And merrily in the belfries They rock and sway and hale, And send the bells a-jangle, And down the lusty ale.

It's pleasant in Holy Mary To hear the beaten bells Come booming into music, Which throbs, and clangs, and swells, From sunset till the daybreak, From dawn to afternoon. In port of Holy Mary On San Marie lagoon.

LONDON TOWN

Oh London Town's a fine town, and London sights are rare, And London ale is right ale, and brisk's the London air, And busily goes the world there, but crafty grows the mind, And London Town of all towns I'm glad to leave behind.

Then hey for croft and hop-yard, and hill, and field, and pond, With Breden Hill before me and Malvern Hill beyond. The hawthorn white i' the hedgerow, and all the spring's attire In the comely land of Teme and Lugg, and Clent, and Clee, and Wyre.

Oh London girls are brave girls, in silk and cloth o' gold, And London shops are rare shops, where gallant things are sold, And bonnily clinks the gold there, but drowsily blinks the eye, And London Town of all towns I'm glad to hurry by.

Then, hey for covert and woodland, and ash and elm and oak, Tewkesbury inns, and Malvern roofs, and Worcester chimney smoke, The apple trees in the orchard, the cattle in the byre, And all the land from Ludlow town to Bredon church's spire.

Oh London tunes are new tunes, and London books are wise, And London plays are rare plays, and fine to country eyes, But craftily fares the knave there, and wickedly fares the Jew, And London Town of all towns I'm glad to hurry through.

So hey for the road, the west road, by mill and forge and fold, Scent of the fern and song of the lark by brook, and field, and wold, To the comely folk at the hearth-stone and the talk beside the fire, In the hearty land, where I was bred, my land of heart's desire.

THE EMIGRANT

Going by Daly's shanty I heard the boys within Dancing the Spanish hornpipe to Driscoll's violin, I heard the sea-boots shaking the rough planks of the floor, But I was going westward, I hadn't heart for more.

All down the windy village the noise rang in my ears, Old sea boots stamping, shuffling, it brought the bitter tears, The old tune piped and quavered, the lilts came clear and strong, But I was going westward, I couldn't join the song.

There were the grey stone houses, the night wind blowing keen, The hill-sides pale with moonlight, the young corn springing green, The hearth nooks lit and kindly, with dear friends good to see, But I was going westward, and the ship waited me.

PORT OF HOLY PETER

The blue laguna rocks and quivers,
Dull gurgling eddies twist and spin,
The climate does for people's livers,
It's a nasty place to anchor in
Is Spanish port,
Fever port,
Port of Holy Peter.

The town begins on the sea-beaches,
And the town's mad with the stinging flies,
The drinking water's mostly leeches,
It's a far remove from Paradise
Is Spanish port,
Fever port,
Port of Holy Peter.

There's sand-bagging and throat-slitting,
And quiet graves in the sea same,
Stabbing, of course, and rum-hitting,
Dirt, and drink, and stink, and crime,
In Spanish port,
Fever port,
Port of Holy Peter.

All the day the wind's blowing
From the sick swamp below the hills,
All the night the plague's growing,
And the dawn brings the fever chills,
In Spanish port,
Fever port,
Port of Holy Peter.

You get a thirst there's no slaking,
You get the chills and fever-shakes,
Tongue yellow and head aching,
And then the sleep that never wakes.
And all the year the heat's baking,
The sea rots and the earth quakes,
In Spanish port,
Fever port,
Port of Holy Peter.

BEAUTY

I have seen dawn and sunset on moors and windy hills Coming in solemn beauty like slow old tunes of Spain: I have seen the lady April bringing the daffodils, Bringing the springing grass and the soft warm April rain.

I have heard the song of the blossoms and the old chant of the sea, And seen strange lands from under the arched white sails of ships; But the loveliest things of beauty God ever has showed to me, Are her voice, and her hair, and eyes, and the dear red curve of her lips.

THE SEEKERS

Friends and loves we have none, nor wealth nor blessed abode, But the hope of the City of God at the other end of the road.

Not for us are content, and quiet, and peace of mind, For we go seeking a city that we shall never find.

There is no solace on earth for us--for such as we-- Who search for a hidden city that we shall never see.

Only the road and the dawn, the sun, the wind, and the rain, And the watch fire under stars, and sleep, and the road again.

We seek the City of God, and the haunt where beauty dwells, And we find the noisy mart and the sound of burial bells.

Never the golden city, where radiant people meet, But the dolorous town where mourners are going about the street.

We travel the dusty road till the light of the day is dim, And sunset shows us spires away on the world's rim.

We travel from dawn to dusk, till the day is past and by, Seeking the Holy City beyond the rim of the sky.

Friends and loves we have none, nor wealth nor blest abode, But the hope of the City of God at the other end of the road.

PRAYER

When the last sea is sailed, when the last shallow's charted, When the last field is reaped, and the last harvest stored, When the last fire is out and the last guest departed, Grant the last prayer that I shall pray, be good to me, O Lord.

And let me pass in a night at sea, a night of storm and thunder, In the loud crying of the wind through sail and rope and spar, Send me a ninth great peaceful wave to drown and roll me under To the cold tunny-fish's home where the drowned galleons are.

And in the dim green quiet place far out of sight and hearing, Grant I may hear at whiles the wash and thresh of the sea-foam About the fine keen bows of the stately clippers steering Towards the lone northern star and the fair ports of home.

DAWN

The dawn comes cold: the haystack smokes, The green twigs crackle in the fire, The dew is dripping from the oaks, And sleepy men bear milking-yokes Slowly towards the cattle-byre.

Down in the town a clock strikes six, The grey east heaven burns and glows, The dew shines on the thatch of ricks, A slow old crone comes gathering sticks, The red cock in the ox-yard crows.

Beyond the stack where we have lain The road runs twisted like a snake (The white road to the land of Spain), The road that we must foot again, Though the feet halt and the heart ache.

LAUGH AND BE MERRY

Laugh and be merry, remember, better the world with a song, Better the world with a blow in the teeth of a wrong. Laugh, for the time is brief, a thread the length of a span. Laugh and be proud to belong to the old proud pageant of man.

Laugh and be merry: remember, in olden time. God made Heaven and Earth for joy He took in a rhyme, Made them, and filled them full with the strong red wine of His mirth, The splendid joy of the stars: the joy of the earth.

So we must laugh and drink from the deep blue cup of the sky, Join the jubilant song of the great stars sweeping by, Laugh, and battle, and work, and drink of the wine outpoured In the dear green earth, the sign of the joy of the Lord.

Laugh and be merry together, like brothers akin, Guesting awhile in the rooms of a beautiful inn, Glad till the dancing stops, and the lilt of the music ends. Laugh till the game is played; and be you merry, my friends.

JUNE TWILIGHT

The twilight comes; the sun
Dips down and sets,
The boys have done
Play at the nets.

In a warm golden glow
The woods are steeped.
The shadows grow;
The bat has cheeped.

Sweet smells the new-mown hay;
The mowers pass
Home, each his way,
Through the grass.

The night-wind stirs the fern,
A night-jar spins;
The windows burn
In the inns.

Dusky it grows. The moon!
The dews descend.
Love, can this beauty in our hearts
End?

ROADWAYS

One road leads to London,
One road runs to Wales,
My road leads me seawards
To the white dipping sails.

One road leads to the river,
As it goes singing slow;
My road leads to shipping,
Where the bronzed sailors go.

Leads me, lures me, calls me
To salt green tossing sea;
A road without earth's road-dust
Is the right road for me.

A wet road heaving, shining,
And wild with seagulls' cries,
A mad salt sea-wind blowing
The salt spray in my eyes.

My road calls me, lures me
West, east, south, and north;
Most roads lead men homewards,
My road leads me forth

To add more miles to the tally
Of grey miles left behind,
In quest of that one beauty
God put me here to find.

MIDSUMMER NIGHT

The perfect disc of the sacred moon Through still blue heaven serenely swims, And the lone bird's liquid music brims The peace of the night with a perfect tune.

This is that holiest night of the year When (the mowers say) may be heard and seen The ghostly court of the English queen, Who rides to harry and hunt the deer.

And the woodland creatures cower awake, A strange unrest is on harts and does, For the maiden Dian a-hunting goes, And the trembling deer are afoot in the brake.

They start at a shaken leaf: the sound Of a dry twig snapped by a squirrel's foot Is a nameless dread: and to them the hoot Of a mousing owl is the cry of a hound.

Oh soon the forest will ring with cries, The dim green coverts will flash: the grass Will glow as the radiant hunters pass After the quarry with burning eyes.

The hurrying feet will range unstayed Of questing goddess and hunted fawn, Till the east is grey with the sacred dawn, And the red cock wakens the milking maid.

THE HARPER'S SONG

This sweetness trembling from the strings The music of my troublous lute Hath timed Herodias' daughter's foot; Setting a-clink her ankle-rings Whenas she danced to feasted kings.

Where gemmed apparel burned and caught The sunset 'neath the golden dome, To the dark beauties of old Rome My sorrowful lute hath haply brought Sad memories sweet with tender thought.

When night had fallen and lights and fires Were darkened in the homes of men, Some sighing echo stirred:--and then The old cunning wakened from the wires The old sorrows and the old desires.

Dead Kings in long forgotten lands, And all dead beauteous women; some Whose pride imperial hath become Old armour rusting in the sands And shards of iron in dusty hands,

Have heard my lyre's soft rise and fall Go trembling down the paven ways, Till every heart was all ablaze-- Hasty each foot--to obey the call To triumph or to funeral.

Could I begin again the slow Sweet mournful music filled with tears, Surely the old, dead, dusty ears Would hear; the old drowsy eyes would glow, Old memories come; old hopes and fears, And time restore the long ago.

THE GENTLE LADY

So beautiful, so dainty-sweet, So like a lyre's delightful touch-- A beauty perfect, ripe, complete That art's own hand could only smutch And nature's self not better much.

So beautiful, so purely wrought, Like a fair missal penned with hymns, So gentle, so surpassing thought-- A beauteous soul in lovely limbs, A lantern that an angel trims.

So simple-sweet, without a sin, Like gentle music gently timed, Like rhyme-words coming aptly in, To round a mooned poem rhymed To tunes the laughing bells have chimed.

THE DEAD KNIGHT

The cleanly rush of the mountain air, And the mumbling, grumbling humble-bees, Are the only things that wander there. The pitiful bones are laid at ease, The grass has grown in his tangled hair, And a rambling bramble binds his knees.

To shrieve his soul from the pangs of hell, The only requiem bells that rang Were the harebell and the heather bell. Hushed he is with the holy spell In the gentle hymn the wind sang, And he lies quiet, and sleeps well. He is bleached and blanched with the summer sun; The misty rain and the cold dew Have altered him from the kingly one Whom his lady loved, and his men knew, And dwindled him to a skeleton.

The vetches have twined about his bones, The straggling ivy twists and creeps In his eye-sockets: the nettle keeps Vigil about him while he sleeps. Over his body the wind moans With a dreary tune throughout the day, In a chorus wistful, eerie, thin As the gulls' cry, as the cry in the bay, The mournful word the seas say When tides are wandering out or in.

SORROW OF MYDATH

Weary the cry of the wind is, weary the sea, Weary the heart and the mind and the body of me, Would I were out of it, done with it, would I could be A white gull crying along the desolate sands.

Outcast, derelict soul in a body accurst, Standing drenched with the spindrift, standing athirst, For the cool green waves of death to arise and burst In a tide of quiet for me on the desolate sands.

Would that the waves and the long white hair of the spray Would gather in splendid terror, and blot me away To the sunless place of the wrecks where the waters sway Gently, dreamily, quietly over desolate sands.

TWILIGHT

Twilight it is, and the far woods are dim, and the rooks cry and call. Down in the valley the lamps, and the mist, and a star over all, There by the rick, where they thresh, is the drone at an end, Twilight it is, and I travel the road with my friend.

I think of the friends who are dead, who were dear long ago in the past, Beautiful friends who are dead, though I know that death cannot last; Friends with the beautiful eyes that the dust has defiled, Beautiful souls who were gentle when I was a child.

INVOCATION

O wanderer into many brains, O spark the emperor's purple hides, You sow the dusk with fiery grains When the gold horseman rides. O beauty on the darkness hurled, Be it through me you shame the world.

POSTED AS MISSING

Under all her topsails she trembled like a stag, The wind made a ripple in her bonny red flag; They cheered her from the shore and they cheered her from the pier, And under all her topsails she trembled like a deer.

So she passed swaying, where the green seas run, Her wind-steadied topsails were stately in the sun; There was glitter on the water from her red port light, So she passed swaying, till she was out of sight.

Long and long ago it was, a weary time it is, The bones of her sailor-men are coral plants by this; Coral plants, and shark-weed, and a mermaid's comb, And if the fishers net them they never bring them home.

It's rough on sailors' women. They have to mangle hard, And stitch at dungarees till their finger-ends are scarred, Thinking of the sailor-men who sang among the crowd, Hoisting of her topsails when she sailed so proud.

A CREED

I hold that when a person dies His soul returns again to earth; Arrayed in some new flesh-disguise Another mother gives him birth. With sturdier limbs and brighter brain The old soul takes the roads again.

Such is my own belief and trust; This hand, this hand that holds the pen, Has many a hundred times been dust And turned, as dust, to dust again; These eyes of mine have blinked and shone In Thebes, in Troy, in Babylon.

All that I rightly think or do, Or make, or spoil, or bless, or blast, Is curse or blessing justly due For sloth or effort in the past. My life's a statement of the sum Of vice indulged, or overcome.

I know that in my lives to be My sorry heart will ache and burn, And worship, unavailingly, The woman whom I used to spurn, And shake to see another have The love I spurned, the love she gave.

And I shall know, in angry words, In gibes, and mocks, and many a tear, A carrion flock of homing-birds, The gibes and scorns I uttered here. The brave word that I failed to speak Will brand me dastard on the cheek.

And as I wander on the roads I shall be helped and healed and blessed; Dear words shall cheer and be as goads To urge to heights before unguessed. My road shall be the road I made; All that I gave shall be repaid.

So shall I fight, so shall I tread, In this long war beneath the stars; So shall a glory wreathe my head, So shall I faint and show the scars, Until this case, this clogging mould, Be smithied all to kingly gold.

WHEN BONY DEATH

When bony Death has chilled her gentle blood,
And dimmed the brightness of her wistful eyes,
And changed her glorious beauty into mud
By his old skill in hateful wizardries;

When an old lichened marble strives to tell
How sweet a grace, how red a lip was hers;
When rheumy grey-beards say, "I knew her well,"
Showing the grave to curious worshippers;

When all the roses that she sowed in me
Have dripped their crimson petals and decayed,
Leaving no greenery on any tree
That her dear hands in my heart's garden laid,

Then grant, old Time, to my green mouldering skull, These songs may keep her memory beautiful.

THE WEST WIND

It's a warm wind, the west wind, full of birds' cries; I never hear the west wind but tears are in my eyes. For it comes from the west lands, the old brown hills, And April's in the west wind, and daffodils.

It's a fine land, the west land, for hearts as tired as mine, Apple orchards blossom there, and the air's like wine. There is cool green grass there, where men may lie at rest, And the thrushes are in song there, fluting from the nest.

"Will you not come home, brother? You have been long away. It's April, and blossom time, and white is the spray: And bright is the sun, brother, and warm is the rain, Will you not come home, brother, home to us again?

The young corn is green, brother, where the rabbits run; It's blue sky, and white clouds, and warm rain and sun. It's song to a man's soul, brother, fire to a man's brain, To hear the wild bees and see the merry spring again.

Larks are singing in the west, brother, above the green wheat, So will you not come home, brother, and rest your tired feet? I've a balm for bruised hearts, brother, sleep for aching eyes," Says the warm wind, the west wind, full of birds' cries.

It's the white road westwards is the road I must tread To the green grass, the cool grass, and rest for heart and head, To the violets and the brown brooks and the thrushes' song In the fine land, the west land, the land where I belong.

HER HEART

Her heart is always doing lovely things,
Filling my wintry mind with simple flowers;
Playing sweet tunes on my untuned strings,
Delighting all my undelightful hours.

She plays me like a lute, what tune she will,
No string in me but trembles at her touch,
Shakes into sacred music, or is still,
Trembles or stops, or swells, her skill is such.

And in the dusty tavern of my soul
Where filthy lusts drink witches' brew for wine,
Her gentle hand still keeps me from the bowl,
Still keeps me man, saves me from being swine.

All grace in me, all sweetness in my verse, Is hers, is my dear girl's, and only hers.

BEING HER FRIEND

Being her friend, I do not care, not I,
How gods or men may wrong me, beat me down;
Her word's sufficient star to travel by,
I count her quiet praise sufficient crown.

Being her friend, I do not covet gold,
Save for a royal gift to give her pleasure;
To sit with her, and have her hand to hold,
Is wealth, I think, surpassing minted treasure.

Being her friend, I only covet art,
A white pure flame to search me as I trace
In crooked letters from a throbbing heart
The hymn to beauty written on her face.

FRAGMENTS

Troy Town is covered up with weeds,
The rabbits and the pismires brood
On broken gold, and shards, and beads
Where Priam's ancient palace stood.

The floors of many a gallant house
Are matted with the roots of grass;
The glow-worm and the nimble mouse
Among her ruins flit and pass.

And there, in orts of blackened bone,
The widowed Trojan beauties lie,
And Simois babbles over stone
And waps and gurgles to the sky.

Once there were merry days in Troy,
Her chimneys smoked with cooking meals,
The passing chariots did annoy
The sunning housewives at their wheels.

And many a lovely Trojan maid
Set Trojan lads to lovely things;
The game of life was nobly played,
They played the game like Queens and Kings.

So that, when Troy had greatly passed
In one red roaring fiery coal,
The courts the Grecians overcast
Became a city in the soul.

In some green island of the sea,
Where now the shadowy coral grows
In pride and pomp and empery
The courts of old Atlantis rose.

In many a glittering house of glass
The Atlanteans wandered there;
The paleness of their faces was
Like ivory, so pale they were.

And hushed they were, no noise of words
In those bright cities ever rang;
Only their thoughts, like golden birds,
About their chambers thrilled and sang.

They knew all wisdom, for they knew
The souls of those Egyptian Kings
Who learned, in ancient Babilu,
The beauty of immortal things.

They knew all beauty--when they thought
The air chimed like a stricken lyre,
The elemental birds were wrought,
The golden birds became a fire.

And straight to busy camps and marts
The singing flames were swiftly gone;
The trembling leaves of human hearts
Hid boughs for them to perch upon.

And men in desert places, men
Abandoned, broken, sick with fears,
Rose singing, swung their swords agen,
And laughed and died among the spears.

The green and greedy seas have drowned
That city's glittering walls and towers,
Her sunken minarets are crowned
With red and russet water-flowers.

In towers and rooms and golden courts
The shadowy coral lifts her sprays;
The scrawl hath gorged her broken orts,
The shark doth haunt her hidden ways.

But, at the falling of the tide,
The golden birds still sing and gleam,
The Atlanteans have not died,
Immortal things still give us dream.

The dream that fires man's heart to make,
To build, to do, to sing or say
A beauty Death can never take,
An Adam from the crumbled clay.

BORN FOR NOUGHT ELSE

Born for nought else, for nothing but for this,
To watch the soft blood throbbing in her throat,
To think how comely sweet her body is,
And learn the poem of her face by rote.

Born for nought else but to attempt a rhyme
That shall describe her womanhood aright,
And make her holy to the end of Time,
And be my soul's acquittal in God's sight.

Born for nought else but to expressly mark
The music of her dear delicious ways;
Born but to perish meanly in the dark,
Yet born to be the man to sing her praise.

Born for nought else: there is a spirit tells My lot's a King's, being born for nothing else.

TEWKESBURY ROAD

It is good to be out on the road, and going one knows not where,
Going through meadow and village, one knows not whither nor why;
Through the grey light drift of the dust, in the keen cool rush of the
air,
Under the flying white clouds, and the broad blue lift of the sky.

And to halt at the chattering brook, in the tall green fern at the brink
Where the harebell grows, and the gorse, and the foxgloves purple and
white;
Where the shy-eyed delicate deer troop down to the brook to drink
When the stars are mellow and large at the coming on of the night.

O, to feel the beat of the rain, and the homely smell of the earth,
Is a tune for the blood to jig to, a joy past power of words;
And the blessed green comely meadows are all a-ripple with mirth
At the noise of the lambs at play and the dear wild cry of the birds.

THE DEATH ROOMS

My soul has many an old decaying room
Hung with the ragged arras of the past,
Where startled faces flicker in the gloom,
And horrid whispers set the cheek aghast.

Those dropping rooms are haunted by a death,
A something like a worm gnawing a brain,
That bids me heed what bitter lesson saith
The blind wind beating on the window-pane.

None dwells in those old rooms: none ever can--
I pass them through at night with hidden head;
Lock'd rotting rooms her eyes must never scan,
Floors that her blessed feet must never tread.

Haunted old rooms: rooms she must never know, Where death-ticks knock and mouldering panels glow.

IGNORANCE

Since I have learned Love's shining alphabet,
And spelled in ink what's writ in me in flame,
And borne her sacred image richly set
Here in my heart to keep me quit of shame;

Since I have learned how wise and passing wise
Is the dear friend whose beauty I extol,
And know how sweet a soul looks through the eyes,
That are so pure a window to her soul;

Since I have learned how rare a woman shows
As much in all she does as in her looks,
And seen the beauty of her shame the rose,
And dim the beauty writ about in books;

All I have learned, and can learn, shows me this-- How scant, how slight, my knowledge of her is.

SEA FEVER

I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky, And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by; And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking, And a grey mist on the sea's face, and a grey dawn breaking,

I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied; And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying, And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life, To the gull's way and the whale's way where the wind's like a whetted knife; And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover, And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.

THE WATCH IN THE WOOD

When Death has laid her in his quietude,
And dimmed the glow of her benignant star,
Her tired limbs shall rest within a wood,
In a green glade where oaks and beeches are,

Where the shy fawns, the pretty fawns, the deer,
With mild brown eyes shall view her spirit's husk;
The sleeping woman of her will appear,
The maiden Dian shining through the dusk.

And, when the stars are white as twilight fails,
And the green leaves are hushed, and the winds swoon,
The calm pure thrilling throats of nightingales
Shall hymn her sleeping beauty to the moon.

All the woods hushed--save for a dripping rose, All the woods dun--save where a glow-worm glows.

Brimming the quiet woods with holiness,
The lone brown birds will hymn her till the dawn,
The delicate, shy, dappled deer will press
Soft pitying muzzles on her swathed lawn.

The little pretty rabbits running by.
Will pause among the dewy grass to peep,
Their thudding hearts affrighted to espy
The maiden Dian lying there asleep.

Brown, lustrous, placid eyes of sylvan things
Will wonder at the quiet in her face,
While from the thorny branch the singer brings
Beauty and peace to that immortal place.

Until the grey dawn sets the woods astir The pure birds' thrilling psalm will mourn for her.