They would take the hill next day—the order, he knew,And the kind of hell the “taking” would be, he had seen;So he spent the night awake and the hours flew,As he pondered on the sort of man he had been,And wondered what dying and doing it bravely would mean.“The Eighty-second’s coming along tonight!”He remembered then. There were men in that regiment knewHis Island home. Men that were going to fightFor the moors he loved and the pines where arbutus grew.Well—he thought he would like to pass them a word or two.He thought he would like to see them, to talk of the hillBy Polpis Harbor, the grey little farm roofs slant;Of the way the sunset flared through the fans of the Mill,And the rolling moorland hiding the plover and brant,And the scallopers sailing their boats through Autumnal chill.He thought he would like to talk of the gilded domeOf the Unitarian Church, of the cobbled square;And speak with others sea-faring names of home,Wondering, “Do they hear of the fighting thereWhere Sankaty Light stands guard with its solemn flare?”So he stood all night, on those dark hours of the earth,Calling to men slogging by to heroic ends,[A]Shouting: “Nantucket,” little grey town of his birth;Palely he stood there, anxious as one who sendsS. O. S. scanning the night for friends.“Nantucket!” he hailed—but the river of men rolled by,Every eye set grim towards its Mecca of bloody drench;No answering Island voice took up his cryBut his own soul answered. He went back to his trenchResolving how a Nantucket man would die!
They would take the hill next day—the order, he knew,And the kind of hell the “taking” would be, he had seen;So he spent the night awake and the hours flew,As he pondered on the sort of man he had been,And wondered what dying and doing it bravely would mean.“The Eighty-second’s coming along tonight!”He remembered then. There were men in that regiment knewHis Island home. Men that were going to fightFor the moors he loved and the pines where arbutus grew.Well—he thought he would like to pass them a word or two.He thought he would like to see them, to talk of the hillBy Polpis Harbor, the grey little farm roofs slant;Of the way the sunset flared through the fans of the Mill,And the rolling moorland hiding the plover and brant,And the scallopers sailing their boats through Autumnal chill.He thought he would like to talk of the gilded domeOf the Unitarian Church, of the cobbled square;And speak with others sea-faring names of home,Wondering, “Do they hear of the fighting thereWhere Sankaty Light stands guard with its solemn flare?”So he stood all night, on those dark hours of the earth,Calling to men slogging by to heroic ends,[A]Shouting: “Nantucket,” little grey town of his birth;Palely he stood there, anxious as one who sendsS. O. S. scanning the night for friends.“Nantucket!” he hailed—but the river of men rolled by,Every eye set grim towards its Mecca of bloody drench;No answering Island voice took up his cryBut his own soul answered. He went back to his trenchResolving how a Nantucket man would die!
They would take the hill next day—the order, he knew,And the kind of hell the “taking” would be, he had seen;So he spent the night awake and the hours flew,As he pondered on the sort of man he had been,And wondered what dying and doing it bravely would mean.“The Eighty-second’s coming along tonight!”He remembered then. There were men in that regiment knewHis Island home. Men that were going to fightFor the moors he loved and the pines where arbutus grew.Well—he thought he would like to pass them a word or two.
He thought he would like to see them, to talk of the hillBy Polpis Harbor, the grey little farm roofs slant;Of the way the sunset flared through the fans of the Mill,And the rolling moorland hiding the plover and brant,And the scallopers sailing their boats through Autumnal chill.
He thought he would like to talk of the gilded domeOf the Unitarian Church, of the cobbled square;And speak with others sea-faring names of home,Wondering, “Do they hear of the fighting thereWhere Sankaty Light stands guard with its solemn flare?”
So he stood all night, on those dark hours of the earth,Calling to men slogging by to heroic ends,[A]Shouting: “Nantucket,” little grey town of his birth;Palely he stood there, anxious as one who sendsS. O. S. scanning the night for friends.
“Nantucket!” he hailed—but the river of men rolled by,Every eye set grim towards its Mecca of bloody drench;No answering Island voice took up his cryBut his own soul answered. He went back to his trenchResolving how a Nantucket man would die!
[A]A true incident.
[A]A true incident.
High all our prisons,We can no more out;Words meant to free us,Compass us about;And a sigh means a laughAnd a hymn a battle shout.But here silence mellowsStarved being into life;With these dreamy fellows—Rod, reel and jack-knife—Even the caught fish are blithe.Green water laps the spiles,The silence is golden;Every little whilesI am beholdenTo a sea captainOf a time olden.He puts on the baitOf quahog, that gets meA bright little flipper,Or a plaice fish nets me;That I’ll haul in a whaleHe occasionally bets me.Silence and fishing,Sun, understanding;Fun to see off-islandersTack in and miss their landing.Quiet winks exchangedWhile tobacco you’re handing.No boasting here,No meanness with minnows;Commonwealth of BaitDebts only finn-owes;And a great quiet kindnessAnd much color blindness.Maybe it comes fromLooking down so deep,Where much is hiddenAnd much lies asleep;With your eyes on the line,Given you to keep.Quiet pipes lit,Quiet eyes reflective,Rips a silver fishFrom out the perspective;To go fishing on the wharfIs my one great Objective!
High all our prisons,We can no more out;Words meant to free us,Compass us about;And a sigh means a laughAnd a hymn a battle shout.But here silence mellowsStarved being into life;With these dreamy fellows—Rod, reel and jack-knife—Even the caught fish are blithe.Green water laps the spiles,The silence is golden;Every little whilesI am beholdenTo a sea captainOf a time olden.He puts on the baitOf quahog, that gets meA bright little flipper,Or a plaice fish nets me;That I’ll haul in a whaleHe occasionally bets me.Silence and fishing,Sun, understanding;Fun to see off-islandersTack in and miss their landing.Quiet winks exchangedWhile tobacco you’re handing.No boasting here,No meanness with minnows;Commonwealth of BaitDebts only finn-owes;And a great quiet kindnessAnd much color blindness.Maybe it comes fromLooking down so deep,Where much is hiddenAnd much lies asleep;With your eyes on the line,Given you to keep.Quiet pipes lit,Quiet eyes reflective,Rips a silver fishFrom out the perspective;To go fishing on the wharfIs my one great Objective!
High all our prisons,We can no more out;Words meant to free us,Compass us about;And a sigh means a laughAnd a hymn a battle shout.
But here silence mellowsStarved being into life;With these dreamy fellows—Rod, reel and jack-knife—Even the caught fish are blithe.
Green water laps the spiles,The silence is golden;Every little whilesI am beholdenTo a sea captainOf a time olden.
He puts on the baitOf quahog, that gets meA bright little flipper,Or a plaice fish nets me;That I’ll haul in a whaleHe occasionally bets me.
Silence and fishing,Sun, understanding;Fun to see off-islandersTack in and miss their landing.Quiet winks exchangedWhile tobacco you’re handing.
No boasting here,No meanness with minnows;Commonwealth of BaitDebts only finn-owes;And a great quiet kindnessAnd much color blindness.
Maybe it comes fromLooking down so deep,Where much is hiddenAnd much lies asleep;With your eyes on the line,Given you to keep.
Quiet pipes lit,Quiet eyes reflective,Rips a silver fishFrom out the perspective;To go fishing on the wharfIs my one great Objective!
Slim pointed pickets guard the summer dream,Glimpsing behind their lichen-scrolléd bars;Young shapes of white that in ethereal streamToss starry incense to the summer stars.Ranked slender acolytes in harbor lane,Communion bear to many a churchless breast;Processional in falling summer rain,Recessional to gold and Gothic West.Only a daisy field—yet one man’s careEnshrines it in immaculate gated reach;Inviolate flowers veil them mistily there,Spreading like moonlight to the moonlit beach ...Where the white patens disk the tabled greenIs read the sacred Word of sea and skies;Chapelled within this occult daisy screenIs Sacrament for beauty-loving eyes.
Slim pointed pickets guard the summer dream,Glimpsing behind their lichen-scrolléd bars;Young shapes of white that in ethereal streamToss starry incense to the summer stars.Ranked slender acolytes in harbor lane,Communion bear to many a churchless breast;Processional in falling summer rain,Recessional to gold and Gothic West.Only a daisy field—yet one man’s careEnshrines it in immaculate gated reach;Inviolate flowers veil them mistily there,Spreading like moonlight to the moonlit beach ...Where the white patens disk the tabled greenIs read the sacred Word of sea and skies;Chapelled within this occult daisy screenIs Sacrament for beauty-loving eyes.
Slim pointed pickets guard the summer dream,Glimpsing behind their lichen-scrolléd bars;Young shapes of white that in ethereal streamToss starry incense to the summer stars.Ranked slender acolytes in harbor lane,Communion bear to many a churchless breast;Processional in falling summer rain,Recessional to gold and Gothic West.
Only a daisy field—yet one man’s careEnshrines it in immaculate gated reach;Inviolate flowers veil them mistily there,Spreading like moonlight to the moonlit beach ...Where the white patens disk the tabled greenIs read the sacred Word of sea and skies;Chapelled within this occult daisy screenIs Sacrament for beauty-loving eyes.
YOUTH
Old Mill, grind me cornFor my house by the thorn,For I’m with the old folk,Where the pigs in the pokeAnd the cows in the barnAnd the peat’s on the stoneAnd the latchstring out-thrown....Old Mill, grind me cornFor the winter morn.
Old Mill, grind me cornFor my house by the thorn,For I’m with the old folk,Where the pigs in the pokeAnd the cows in the barnAnd the peat’s on the stoneAnd the latchstring out-thrown....Old Mill, grind me cornFor the winter morn.
Old Mill, grind me cornFor my house by the thorn,For I’m with the old folk,Where the pigs in the pokeAnd the cows in the barnAnd the peat’s on the stoneAnd the latchstring out-thrown....Old Mill, grind me cornFor the winter morn.
OLD MILL
No grain can I grind thee, Modern Child,My sails are tattered,My grind stones scattered;My cranks are riddledWith rust defiled ...But I’ll turn you a dream,A Grey-Town dream,At which many have smiledAnd been beguiled.
No grain can I grind thee, Modern Child,My sails are tattered,My grind stones scattered;My cranks are riddledWith rust defiled ...But I’ll turn you a dream,A Grey-Town dream,At which many have smiledAnd been beguiled.
No grain can I grind thee, Modern Child,My sails are tattered,My grind stones scattered;My cranks are riddledWith rust defiled ...But I’ll turn you a dream,A Grey-Town dream,At which many have smiledAnd been beguiled.
YOUTH
Turn me a dream then, doughty Mill,Flaring there on your windy hillWith your rickety arms spread on the sky;Black crows from the cornfields passing you by,Near the burying-ground where the Quakers sleep,And the sailors home from the ranging deepTurn me a dream, you strange old Mill,Keeping your watch on the windy hill.
Turn me a dream then, doughty Mill,Flaring there on your windy hillWith your rickety arms spread on the sky;Black crows from the cornfields passing you by,Near the burying-ground where the Quakers sleep,And the sailors home from the ranging deepTurn me a dream, you strange old Mill,Keeping your watch on the windy hill.
Turn me a dream then, doughty Mill,Flaring there on your windy hillWith your rickety arms spread on the sky;Black crows from the cornfields passing you by,Near the burying-ground where the Quakers sleep,And the sailors home from the ranging deepTurn me a dream, you strange old Mill,Keeping your watch on the windy hill.
OLD MILL
Shall I turn you a dream of the Town Crier callingHis news ’gainst the tempest bawling?Shall I turn you a dream of Three Vikings sailingThe rim of a low lying island hailing ...?Turn you a dream of a Smuggler grimAnd the underground path for his mates and him?Of Three forms walking a midnight roadTo a lonely farmhouse where one light showedAnd a paper signed with a white quill penThat helped bring freedom to slave-born men?Of a man who made a telescopeAnd lassoed the stars with a mental rope—Of the woman who worked in a cottage small,Whose name in science leads them all?Of a knight who came and built a school?Of a woman who broke a cast iron rule?Of the Quaker forms and the gentle waysThat ruled all war out of the ways?Of the Indians, watching the sun go down?Of the whalers and gold seekers of renown?
Shall I turn you a dream of the Town Crier callingHis news ’gainst the tempest bawling?Shall I turn you a dream of Three Vikings sailingThe rim of a low lying island hailing ...?Turn you a dream of a Smuggler grimAnd the underground path for his mates and him?Of Three forms walking a midnight roadTo a lonely farmhouse where one light showedAnd a paper signed with a white quill penThat helped bring freedom to slave-born men?Of a man who made a telescopeAnd lassoed the stars with a mental rope—Of the woman who worked in a cottage small,Whose name in science leads them all?Of a knight who came and built a school?Of a woman who broke a cast iron rule?Of the Quaker forms and the gentle waysThat ruled all war out of the ways?Of the Indians, watching the sun go down?Of the whalers and gold seekers of renown?
Shall I turn you a dream of the Town Crier callingHis news ’gainst the tempest bawling?Shall I turn you a dream of Three Vikings sailingThe rim of a low lying island hailing ...?Turn you a dream of a Smuggler grimAnd the underground path for his mates and him?Of Three forms walking a midnight roadTo a lonely farmhouse where one light showedAnd a paper signed with a white quill penThat helped bring freedom to slave-born men?Of a man who made a telescopeAnd lassoed the stars with a mental rope—Of the woman who worked in a cottage small,Whose name in science leads them all?Of a knight who came and built a school?Of a woman who broke a cast iron rule?Of the Quaker forms and the gentle waysThat ruled all war out of the ways?Of the Indians, watching the sun go down?Of the whalers and gold seekers of renown?
YOUTH
Nay, Old Mill, I laugh in your face;Turn me no dream of a Quaker past,Turn me no dream of the tranquil ways,Turn me a dream for my own tense days,Turn me a dream for my cherishing—A dream for believing;A dream for my strength!
Nay, Old Mill, I laugh in your face;Turn me no dream of a Quaker past,Turn me no dream of the tranquil ways,Turn me a dream for my own tense days,Turn me a dream for my cherishing—A dream for believing;A dream for my strength!
Nay, Old Mill, I laugh in your face;Turn me no dream of a Quaker past,Turn me no dream of the tranquil ways,Turn me a dream for my own tense days,Turn me a dream for my cherishing—A dream for believing;A dream for my strength!
OLD MILL
Shall I turn you a dream for your loneliness?A dream of the star-scattered faces about you,And the plans and pleasures and pains that flout you?Shall I tell of the voices that you must hearBefore some one Voice calls you clear?(But whatever it be—for joy and sadnessOr triumph, defeat, or grief or gladness—That I cannot know,Said the Old Mill very low.)
Shall I turn you a dream for your loneliness?A dream of the star-scattered faces about you,And the plans and pleasures and pains that flout you?Shall I tell of the voices that you must hearBefore some one Voice calls you clear?(But whatever it be—for joy and sadnessOr triumph, defeat, or grief or gladness—That I cannot know,Said the Old Mill very low.)
Shall I turn you a dream for your loneliness?A dream of the star-scattered faces about you,And the plans and pleasures and pains that flout you?Shall I tell of the voices that you must hearBefore some one Voice calls you clear?(But whatever it be—for joy and sadnessOr triumph, defeat, or grief or gladness—That I cannot know,Said the Old Mill very low.)
YOUTH
Nay, Old Mill, if you know the voicesThat make for a bold life’s chance and choices,Turn me that dream!
Nay, Old Mill, if you know the voicesThat make for a bold life’s chance and choices,Turn me that dream!
Nay, Old Mill, if you know the voicesThat make for a bold life’s chance and choices,Turn me that dream!
OLD MILL
Only the sound of one voice, you shall hear,A Voice that has known your soul forever;A Voice that has called you and kept you whereverYou failed or won in your high endeavor—The Voice of your Dream!
Only the sound of one voice, you shall hear,A Voice that has known your soul forever;A Voice that has called you and kept you whereverYou failed or won in your high endeavor—The Voice of your Dream!
Only the sound of one voice, you shall hear,A Voice that has known your soul forever;A Voice that has called you and kept you whereverYou failed or won in your high endeavor—The Voice of your Dream!
YOUTH
O Mill, give me no mystery;I know the way of human history—Turn me true dreams!
O Mill, give me no mystery;I know the way of human history—Turn me true dreams!
O Mill, give me no mystery;I know the way of human history—Turn me true dreams!
OLD MILL
Only the dream of Beauty, I know,The long sky paved with the afterglow;The moonlaced bog and the shimmering seas,The floating mist through moorland trees;The quiet color of twilight dunes,The night heron croaking its ebb-tide runes;The black-walled sky and the star-strung vines,The pooling spread of the Island pines.And the Sea’s voice borne on the salt mist breath,Where the chained arbutus wandereth....The strange glad swerve of the moorland roadAnd the great black shoulder of the wood....(Only these things I know,Said the Old Mill very low.)
Only the dream of Beauty, I know,The long sky paved with the afterglow;The moonlaced bog and the shimmering seas,The floating mist through moorland trees;The quiet color of twilight dunes,The night heron croaking its ebb-tide runes;The black-walled sky and the star-strung vines,The pooling spread of the Island pines.And the Sea’s voice borne on the salt mist breath,Where the chained arbutus wandereth....The strange glad swerve of the moorland roadAnd the great black shoulder of the wood....(Only these things I know,Said the Old Mill very low.)
Only the dream of Beauty, I know,The long sky paved with the afterglow;The moonlaced bog and the shimmering seas,The floating mist through moorland trees;The quiet color of twilight dunes,The night heron croaking its ebb-tide runes;The black-walled sky and the star-strung vines,The pooling spread of the Island pines.And the Sea’s voice borne on the salt mist breath,Where the chained arbutus wandereth....The strange glad swerve of the moorland roadAnd the great black shoulder of the wood....(Only these things I know,Said the Old Mill very low.)
YOUTH
Then Old Mill, since no dream you grind meA dream of my own I will surely find me!But as Youth weaves and catches the threadsOf a hundred human joys and dreads,Youth sees the Old Mill standing there,High on the hill with the West aflare ...And dark as it looms on the sky, it seemsThe Old Mill steadily turns out dreams—.“All’s well,” grinds the grave Old Mill;“All’s well,” grinds the brave Old Mill;“If your eyes and your heart hold loveliness,And your mind and your soul know faithfulness,And your eyes and your hands know steadiness....You shall walk straight over the rim of the yearsTo the Vivid Land of all conquered fears;With your heart set true and your eyes set straight,You will grind good dreams from the grist of fate.”(But that’s all I know,Said the Old Mill very low.)
Then Old Mill, since no dream you grind meA dream of my own I will surely find me!But as Youth weaves and catches the threadsOf a hundred human joys and dreads,Youth sees the Old Mill standing there,High on the hill with the West aflare ...And dark as it looms on the sky, it seemsThe Old Mill steadily turns out dreams—.“All’s well,” grinds the grave Old Mill;“All’s well,” grinds the brave Old Mill;“If your eyes and your heart hold loveliness,And your mind and your soul know faithfulness,And your eyes and your hands know steadiness....You shall walk straight over the rim of the yearsTo the Vivid Land of all conquered fears;With your heart set true and your eyes set straight,You will grind good dreams from the grist of fate.”(But that’s all I know,Said the Old Mill very low.)
Then Old Mill, since no dream you grind meA dream of my own I will surely find me!
But as Youth weaves and catches the threadsOf a hundred human joys and dreads,Youth sees the Old Mill standing there,High on the hill with the West aflare ...And dark as it looms on the sky, it seemsThe Old Mill steadily turns out dreams—.“All’s well,” grinds the grave Old Mill;“All’s well,” grinds the brave Old Mill;“If your eyes and your heart hold loveliness,And your mind and your soul know faithfulness,And your eyes and your hands know steadiness....You shall walk straight over the rim of the yearsTo the Vivid Land of all conquered fears;With your heart set true and your eyes set straight,You will grind good dreams from the grist of fate.”(But that’s all I know,Said the Old Mill very low.)
“’Twas long ago” they saidOf the country whence I came,“Greece is a dream that is dead,Athens only a name!”Yet on this April dayAs I go through the towns,I see soft ThessalyOn these New England downs.I see the lilied plainsWhere the white cranes droop their bills;And the moving cattle trainsWinding into the hills;While the farmer drums his bees,And the donkey shakes his bellsUnder the olive treesWhere the Bay of Corinth swells,To great blue-silver gateWhere the sea-bound temples wait,And the Eleusinian wayMistily winds the bay.On Knossos’ shady knollsI see the columned tiers;And the cool Ionic scrollsThrob to Olympian cheers.I see a gravelled streamWinding Olympian reeds;Again the Scythian dreamIts wagoned people leads.The river-god drifts on,Raising a poppied head;A pipe sounds halcyon—Nothing of Greece is dead ...!But I, who walk the townsTo sharpen knives at the gate,Feel sharper knives in the frownOf this New World’s estimate!
“’Twas long ago” they saidOf the country whence I came,“Greece is a dream that is dead,Athens only a name!”Yet on this April dayAs I go through the towns,I see soft ThessalyOn these New England downs.I see the lilied plainsWhere the white cranes droop their bills;And the moving cattle trainsWinding into the hills;While the farmer drums his bees,And the donkey shakes his bellsUnder the olive treesWhere the Bay of Corinth swells,To great blue-silver gateWhere the sea-bound temples wait,And the Eleusinian wayMistily winds the bay.On Knossos’ shady knollsI see the columned tiers;And the cool Ionic scrollsThrob to Olympian cheers.I see a gravelled streamWinding Olympian reeds;Again the Scythian dreamIts wagoned people leads.The river-god drifts on,Raising a poppied head;A pipe sounds halcyon—Nothing of Greece is dead ...!But I, who walk the townsTo sharpen knives at the gate,Feel sharper knives in the frownOf this New World’s estimate!
“’Twas long ago” they saidOf the country whence I came,“Greece is a dream that is dead,Athens only a name!”Yet on this April dayAs I go through the towns,I see soft ThessalyOn these New England downs.I see the lilied plainsWhere the white cranes droop their bills;And the moving cattle trainsWinding into the hills;While the farmer drums his bees,And the donkey shakes his bellsUnder the olive treesWhere the Bay of Corinth swells,To great blue-silver gateWhere the sea-bound temples wait,And the Eleusinian wayMistily winds the bay.On Knossos’ shady knollsI see the columned tiers;And the cool Ionic scrollsThrob to Olympian cheers.I see a gravelled streamWinding Olympian reeds;Again the Scythian dreamIts wagoned people leads.The river-god drifts on,Raising a poppied head;A pipe sounds halcyon—Nothing of Greece is dead ...!
But I, who walk the townsTo sharpen knives at the gate,Feel sharper knives in the frownOf this New World’s estimate!
What was it the wind said,Blowing from the OrientTo the Cross on the hill,And the fans of the Mill?What was it the wind said,Blowing at twilight,To New England?The wind that blew from the EastBlew dreamily,A low song and strange song had the sea.The Islanders sought each other’s eyes,And young men dreamed enterprise;Then sails put from the shores,And wives stood alone at the doors;For the old world, the strange world, calledTo New England!White sails stole outOn the silver sound,They ran into stormsOutward bound;They could not stay homeAnd they would not turn back,For the Old World,The dim world,Called to New England!Now, in the old houseWhere the chimneys stretch wide,Young wives talk by the fireside;On the walls there is Delft,And the lacquered trays,Jades, teak and teapots,Fans of gallant days;China, tortoise and pearl,Ivory carved like lace;Chuddah, Cashmere, Sandal,In some secret place....And what say the young wives,The frank young wives,To the stranger’s face?“No one guessed how they knew,Nor what the wind said,And the sailors are goneAnd the merchants are dead;But the toppling summer sea,And the pale blue winter world,Came often and oft again,And the years like sails furled.Men died on the shipsAnd were buried at sea,Men languished on wild coasts,Lost in mystery....”“No one knows what was saidNor what answered again,When the wind blew a strange way,The wind blew a new way,For Nantucket men,And the Old World called to New England!”
What was it the wind said,Blowing from the OrientTo the Cross on the hill,And the fans of the Mill?What was it the wind said,Blowing at twilight,To New England?The wind that blew from the EastBlew dreamily,A low song and strange song had the sea.The Islanders sought each other’s eyes,And young men dreamed enterprise;Then sails put from the shores,And wives stood alone at the doors;For the old world, the strange world, calledTo New England!White sails stole outOn the silver sound,They ran into stormsOutward bound;They could not stay homeAnd they would not turn back,For the Old World,The dim world,Called to New England!Now, in the old houseWhere the chimneys stretch wide,Young wives talk by the fireside;On the walls there is Delft,And the lacquered trays,Jades, teak and teapots,Fans of gallant days;China, tortoise and pearl,Ivory carved like lace;Chuddah, Cashmere, Sandal,In some secret place....And what say the young wives,The frank young wives,To the stranger’s face?“No one guessed how they knew,Nor what the wind said,And the sailors are goneAnd the merchants are dead;But the toppling summer sea,And the pale blue winter world,Came often and oft again,And the years like sails furled.Men died on the shipsAnd were buried at sea,Men languished on wild coasts,Lost in mystery....”“No one knows what was saidNor what answered again,When the wind blew a strange way,The wind blew a new way,For Nantucket men,And the Old World called to New England!”
What was it the wind said,Blowing from the OrientTo the Cross on the hill,And the fans of the Mill?What was it the wind said,Blowing at twilight,To New England?
The wind that blew from the EastBlew dreamily,A low song and strange song had the sea.The Islanders sought each other’s eyes,And young men dreamed enterprise;Then sails put from the shores,And wives stood alone at the doors;For the old world, the strange world, calledTo New England!
White sails stole outOn the silver sound,They ran into stormsOutward bound;They could not stay homeAnd they would not turn back,For the Old World,The dim world,Called to New England!
Now, in the old houseWhere the chimneys stretch wide,Young wives talk by the fireside;On the walls there is Delft,And the lacquered trays,Jades, teak and teapots,Fans of gallant days;China, tortoise and pearl,Ivory carved like lace;Chuddah, Cashmere, Sandal,In some secret place....And what say the young wives,The frank young wives,To the stranger’s face?
“No one guessed how they knew,Nor what the wind said,And the sailors are goneAnd the merchants are dead;But the toppling summer sea,And the pale blue winter world,Came often and oft again,And the years like sails furled.Men died on the shipsAnd were buried at sea,Men languished on wild coasts,Lost in mystery....”
“No one knows what was saidNor what answered again,When the wind blew a strange way,The wind blew a new way,For Nantucket men,And the Old World called to New England!”
Suppose that o’er the blue thin circling lineWhere low clouds sleep, some figure-head should shine;White swelling sails spread out on fan-streaked skies,And a new vessel in the west should rise.Suppose this vessel, from untraveled zones,Through savage suns and fierce EurocyldonsShould bring me deeply buried in its holdA mystic gift of jewels and blazing gold.And, having safely brought the precious thing,Should spread its sail, augment each shining wing,And calmly, like a night-bird through the stars,Speed on again, crossing the distant bars;Then through the mists go out before my eyes,Leaving me standing there beside the prize.I, left on lonely shores, would ever mournThe messenger that sailed beyond the bourne;I, left on lonely shores, would only prayTo see again the ship that sailed away.I, searching the horizon’s purple round,Would follow ships, hither and thither bound,Longing for this—to see the dim prow lift,That brought to me my longing with my gift.And so with thee, who broughtest me thy truthAblaze with jewels, alight with mystic signs,Then vanished. Lo! with what utter ruth,The sorrow of my gift my soul divines.Holding with yearning talismans of thee,Who hath passed on beyond the touch of me.
Suppose that o’er the blue thin circling lineWhere low clouds sleep, some figure-head should shine;White swelling sails spread out on fan-streaked skies,And a new vessel in the west should rise.Suppose this vessel, from untraveled zones,Through savage suns and fierce EurocyldonsShould bring me deeply buried in its holdA mystic gift of jewels and blazing gold.And, having safely brought the precious thing,Should spread its sail, augment each shining wing,And calmly, like a night-bird through the stars,Speed on again, crossing the distant bars;Then through the mists go out before my eyes,Leaving me standing there beside the prize.I, left on lonely shores, would ever mournThe messenger that sailed beyond the bourne;I, left on lonely shores, would only prayTo see again the ship that sailed away.I, searching the horizon’s purple round,Would follow ships, hither and thither bound,Longing for this—to see the dim prow lift,That brought to me my longing with my gift.And so with thee, who broughtest me thy truthAblaze with jewels, alight with mystic signs,Then vanished. Lo! with what utter ruth,The sorrow of my gift my soul divines.Holding with yearning talismans of thee,Who hath passed on beyond the touch of me.
Suppose that o’er the blue thin circling lineWhere low clouds sleep, some figure-head should shine;White swelling sails spread out on fan-streaked skies,And a new vessel in the west should rise.Suppose this vessel, from untraveled zones,Through savage suns and fierce EurocyldonsShould bring me deeply buried in its holdA mystic gift of jewels and blazing gold.And, having safely brought the precious thing,Should spread its sail, augment each shining wing,And calmly, like a night-bird through the stars,Speed on again, crossing the distant bars;Then through the mists go out before my eyes,Leaving me standing there beside the prize.I, left on lonely shores, would ever mournThe messenger that sailed beyond the bourne;I, left on lonely shores, would only prayTo see again the ship that sailed away.I, searching the horizon’s purple round,Would follow ships, hither and thither bound,Longing for this—to see the dim prow lift,That brought to me my longing with my gift.
And so with thee, who broughtest me thy truthAblaze with jewels, alight with mystic signs,Then vanished. Lo! with what utter ruth,The sorrow of my gift my soul divines.Holding with yearning talismans of thee,Who hath passed on beyond the touch of me.
How do we see our world—Formless? Vague?A rude sphere hurled through space?A green kaleidoscope of trees,And the flash of seas?And life and movement in every place?I see my world with color wet;With the golden sapPushing the green to the ardent sky.I see the ripeness, the warmth of fruits,Round to the sun, plumed melody,The clasp and the subtleties of roots;I see gods walk on the morning hills,Up the dappled brooks and the secret lanesAnd vistas leading to ferny haunts,Where the vivid crimson cardinal flauntsIn calm of tree-pillared fanes.I see my world star-fretted, caughtIn the web of enchained eternities—With the age-old moon on her stair, cloud wrought,Climbing the night-sky’s precipice;I see the silver wheel of tides,The night spell hid in the forest breast,The gold splashed dawn that gravely glidesOver grey mountain crest.O World, whirling out with the sun,And holding us, everyone,When the golden skies twilighted leanTo the purple hills—What have they seen,Who were born, still blind, in a web of days,To thy lessons written in simple ways?Dull streets choked with dusty forms?Crowds and houses and groups and swarmsWho strive, and lose, and are gone again?A world of sordid women and men?A crowd of petty and dull and mean?Not a flower face nor a splash of green—Unless—O world, they have seen it all—The miracle of thy Wonder-Ball!
How do we see our world—Formless? Vague?A rude sphere hurled through space?A green kaleidoscope of trees,And the flash of seas?And life and movement in every place?I see my world with color wet;With the golden sapPushing the green to the ardent sky.I see the ripeness, the warmth of fruits,Round to the sun, plumed melody,The clasp and the subtleties of roots;I see gods walk on the morning hills,Up the dappled brooks and the secret lanesAnd vistas leading to ferny haunts,Where the vivid crimson cardinal flauntsIn calm of tree-pillared fanes.I see my world star-fretted, caughtIn the web of enchained eternities—With the age-old moon on her stair, cloud wrought,Climbing the night-sky’s precipice;I see the silver wheel of tides,The night spell hid in the forest breast,The gold splashed dawn that gravely glidesOver grey mountain crest.O World, whirling out with the sun,And holding us, everyone,When the golden skies twilighted leanTo the purple hills—What have they seen,Who were born, still blind, in a web of days,To thy lessons written in simple ways?Dull streets choked with dusty forms?Crowds and houses and groups and swarmsWho strive, and lose, and are gone again?A world of sordid women and men?A crowd of petty and dull and mean?Not a flower face nor a splash of green—Unless—O world, they have seen it all—The miracle of thy Wonder-Ball!
How do we see our world—Formless? Vague?A rude sphere hurled through space?A green kaleidoscope of trees,And the flash of seas?And life and movement in every place?
I see my world with color wet;With the golden sapPushing the green to the ardent sky.I see the ripeness, the warmth of fruits,Round to the sun, plumed melody,The clasp and the subtleties of roots;I see gods walk on the morning hills,Up the dappled brooks and the secret lanesAnd vistas leading to ferny haunts,Where the vivid crimson cardinal flauntsIn calm of tree-pillared fanes.
I see my world star-fretted, caughtIn the web of enchained eternities—With the age-old moon on her stair, cloud wrought,Climbing the night-sky’s precipice;I see the silver wheel of tides,The night spell hid in the forest breast,The gold splashed dawn that gravely glidesOver grey mountain crest.
O World, whirling out with the sun,And holding us, everyone,When the golden skies twilighted leanTo the purple hills—What have they seen,Who were born, still blind, in a web of days,To thy lessons written in simple ways?Dull streets choked with dusty forms?Crowds and houses and groups and swarmsWho strive, and lose, and are gone again?A world of sordid women and men?A crowd of petty and dull and mean?Not a flower face nor a splash of green—Unless—O world, they have seen it all—The miracle of thy Wonder-Ball!
If you walk on Main Street,Turn your fancy loose,Out of lace and lacquerYou may pick and choose;Poetry of race and clan,Demure maid and solemn man,All the lore is stored awayIn these houses brick and grey.Puritan and worldly wiseTrod these stones that meet your eyes;Hoary old aristocrats,Old chairs, parrots, lace and cats;Old umbrellas, ivory canes,Whale and ship for weather vanes;Soldiers’ Monument and bank,Shops and studios in rank;New sails spread or old sails furled....Main Street’s where you meet the World!If you turn in Salem Street,Better have a care;The Law is on your leftAnd the red jail is there.They don’t burn witchesBut you’d better beware!If you walk on Whale Street,Roll some in your gait;Make believe that caravelsFor your coming wait;Square-rigged and clipper-built,Wind jammer and schooner,Will bear you off on cruisesIf not later, sooner!On North Water StreetSalt creeps into speech;Looking down the little lanesYou will see the beach.All along North Water Street,Please to make a note,All that’s worth sayingIs said about a boat.If you walk on Milk Street,Keep your wits about you;Don’t let any saucy starOn Vestal Street scout you.Curtsey to the Old Mill,Snatch a rose from arbor;Milk Street’s a nice streetTo come in harbor.If you walk through Pleasant Street,You are sure to seeMany brilliant knockersShine reflectingly;Gardens full of spicy bloom,And real ladies taking tea.If you go through Orange Street,You will have a glanceAt Japanese poetryAnd English romance;You’ll smell paint, hear some radio,And see among the wiseA scholar with a Christian’s face,And two great grey eyes.If you walk through Centre Street,You will surely meetA true, true, womanWith voice and manner sweet;And there the windows fairly talk,And the fences are so neat.If you walk through Lily StreetThe sunset’s at the endHoneysuckle claims youLike an old friend;And quaintly blocked upon the skiesOld houses on “Gull Island” rise.If you walk through Quince Street,Never stand and stare,Hollyhocks will ask youTo go otherwhere;Apples growing you may see,Raspberry and pear tree;Wisdom and a pretty witIf you know where to look for it.If you walk through Joy Street,Take a little heedTo keep a fairly sober air,Dignity you’ll need;There’s something about Joy StreetGoes to the head indeed.And when you are in Gay StreetChoose a sober pace,Clematis along the fence,Shakes its stars like lace;And twinkling little cups of flowersToss in a sheltered place.If you look for money,There’s New Dollar Lane,And Mill Street, another streetWith a pirate pointing vane;Consulting maps and other codeYou’ll find the Thousand Dollar Road!And last of all, wherever you walk,Stagger through Stone Alley,Slip along the cobbled stone,Slide methodically;Honeysuckle may evade,Birds shilly-shally,But a good place to meet a maidIs in Stone Alley.How e’er you walk in any street,Wear a pleasant smileAs if you hoped to meet a dreamBefore the next mile—And you may find that dreamWaiting by a stile!
If you walk on Main Street,Turn your fancy loose,Out of lace and lacquerYou may pick and choose;Poetry of race and clan,Demure maid and solemn man,All the lore is stored awayIn these houses brick and grey.Puritan and worldly wiseTrod these stones that meet your eyes;Hoary old aristocrats,Old chairs, parrots, lace and cats;Old umbrellas, ivory canes,Whale and ship for weather vanes;Soldiers’ Monument and bank,Shops and studios in rank;New sails spread or old sails furled....Main Street’s where you meet the World!If you turn in Salem Street,Better have a care;The Law is on your leftAnd the red jail is there.They don’t burn witchesBut you’d better beware!If you walk on Whale Street,Roll some in your gait;Make believe that caravelsFor your coming wait;Square-rigged and clipper-built,Wind jammer and schooner,Will bear you off on cruisesIf not later, sooner!On North Water StreetSalt creeps into speech;Looking down the little lanesYou will see the beach.All along North Water Street,Please to make a note,All that’s worth sayingIs said about a boat.If you walk on Milk Street,Keep your wits about you;Don’t let any saucy starOn Vestal Street scout you.Curtsey to the Old Mill,Snatch a rose from arbor;Milk Street’s a nice streetTo come in harbor.If you walk through Pleasant Street,You are sure to seeMany brilliant knockersShine reflectingly;Gardens full of spicy bloom,And real ladies taking tea.If you go through Orange Street,You will have a glanceAt Japanese poetryAnd English romance;You’ll smell paint, hear some radio,And see among the wiseA scholar with a Christian’s face,And two great grey eyes.If you walk through Centre Street,You will surely meetA true, true, womanWith voice and manner sweet;And there the windows fairly talk,And the fences are so neat.If you walk through Lily StreetThe sunset’s at the endHoneysuckle claims youLike an old friend;And quaintly blocked upon the skiesOld houses on “Gull Island” rise.If you walk through Quince Street,Never stand and stare,Hollyhocks will ask youTo go otherwhere;Apples growing you may see,Raspberry and pear tree;Wisdom and a pretty witIf you know where to look for it.If you walk through Joy Street,Take a little heedTo keep a fairly sober air,Dignity you’ll need;There’s something about Joy StreetGoes to the head indeed.And when you are in Gay StreetChoose a sober pace,Clematis along the fence,Shakes its stars like lace;And twinkling little cups of flowersToss in a sheltered place.If you look for money,There’s New Dollar Lane,And Mill Street, another streetWith a pirate pointing vane;Consulting maps and other codeYou’ll find the Thousand Dollar Road!And last of all, wherever you walk,Stagger through Stone Alley,Slip along the cobbled stone,Slide methodically;Honeysuckle may evade,Birds shilly-shally,But a good place to meet a maidIs in Stone Alley.How e’er you walk in any street,Wear a pleasant smileAs if you hoped to meet a dreamBefore the next mile—And you may find that dreamWaiting by a stile!
If you walk on Main Street,Turn your fancy loose,Out of lace and lacquerYou may pick and choose;Poetry of race and clan,Demure maid and solemn man,All the lore is stored awayIn these houses brick and grey.Puritan and worldly wiseTrod these stones that meet your eyes;Hoary old aristocrats,Old chairs, parrots, lace and cats;Old umbrellas, ivory canes,Whale and ship for weather vanes;Soldiers’ Monument and bank,Shops and studios in rank;New sails spread or old sails furled....Main Street’s where you meet the World!
If you turn in Salem Street,Better have a care;The Law is on your leftAnd the red jail is there.They don’t burn witchesBut you’d better beware!
If you walk on Whale Street,Roll some in your gait;Make believe that caravelsFor your coming wait;Square-rigged and clipper-built,Wind jammer and schooner,Will bear you off on cruisesIf not later, sooner!
On North Water StreetSalt creeps into speech;Looking down the little lanesYou will see the beach.All along North Water Street,Please to make a note,All that’s worth sayingIs said about a boat.
If you walk on Milk Street,Keep your wits about you;Don’t let any saucy starOn Vestal Street scout you.Curtsey to the Old Mill,Snatch a rose from arbor;Milk Street’s a nice streetTo come in harbor.
If you walk through Pleasant Street,You are sure to seeMany brilliant knockersShine reflectingly;Gardens full of spicy bloom,And real ladies taking tea.
If you go through Orange Street,You will have a glanceAt Japanese poetryAnd English romance;You’ll smell paint, hear some radio,And see among the wiseA scholar with a Christian’s face,And two great grey eyes.
If you walk through Centre Street,You will surely meetA true, true, womanWith voice and manner sweet;And there the windows fairly talk,And the fences are so neat.
If you walk through Lily StreetThe sunset’s at the endHoneysuckle claims youLike an old friend;And quaintly blocked upon the skiesOld houses on “Gull Island” rise.
If you walk through Quince Street,Never stand and stare,Hollyhocks will ask youTo go otherwhere;Apples growing you may see,Raspberry and pear tree;Wisdom and a pretty witIf you know where to look for it.
If you walk through Joy Street,Take a little heedTo keep a fairly sober air,Dignity you’ll need;There’s something about Joy StreetGoes to the head indeed.
And when you are in Gay StreetChoose a sober pace,Clematis along the fence,Shakes its stars like lace;And twinkling little cups of flowersToss in a sheltered place.
If you look for money,There’s New Dollar Lane,And Mill Street, another streetWith a pirate pointing vane;Consulting maps and other codeYou’ll find the Thousand Dollar Road!
And last of all, wherever you walk,Stagger through Stone Alley,Slip along the cobbled stone,Slide methodically;Honeysuckle may evade,Birds shilly-shally,But a good place to meet a maidIs in Stone Alley.
How e’er you walk in any street,Wear a pleasant smileAs if you hoped to meet a dreamBefore the next mile—And you may find that dreamWaiting by a stile!
I walked among them with my cup of blue;It was aflame sometimes, and sometimes trembledWith sweet of all the exquisite things I knew.Yet was I feared to tell the draught, dissembled,My wish to have these strangers taste the brewThat to my lip all sky and sun resembled.I walked among them, holding up my grail;Holding it steady, bidding to the drinking.It was the best I knew; luminous, pale,Changeful and fiery in its bubbled winking;I watched its vital depth grow warm and sunny,Ethereal-bitter—sometimes sweet as honey.I walked among them with my cup of blue;They laughed and turned to chatter at my rapture.“What cup is this,” they asked, “of simple brew?What un-sure Wine, what grail of dullard’s capture?This is no drink to slake our fevered dryness;This mead for us would hold but acid wryness.”I walk among them with my azure bowl,To fete and market-place and to the threshing;Today there is no feast, there is no soulBut craves the cup I bring, nor its refreshing,And yet in vain I raise my flashing beakerAnd pledge my toast—to Truth and the Truth Seeker!
I walked among them with my cup of blue;It was aflame sometimes, and sometimes trembledWith sweet of all the exquisite things I knew.Yet was I feared to tell the draught, dissembled,My wish to have these strangers taste the brewThat to my lip all sky and sun resembled.I walked among them, holding up my grail;Holding it steady, bidding to the drinking.It was the best I knew; luminous, pale,Changeful and fiery in its bubbled winking;I watched its vital depth grow warm and sunny,Ethereal-bitter—sometimes sweet as honey.I walked among them with my cup of blue;They laughed and turned to chatter at my rapture.“What cup is this,” they asked, “of simple brew?What un-sure Wine, what grail of dullard’s capture?This is no drink to slake our fevered dryness;This mead for us would hold but acid wryness.”I walk among them with my azure bowl,To fete and market-place and to the threshing;Today there is no feast, there is no soulBut craves the cup I bring, nor its refreshing,And yet in vain I raise my flashing beakerAnd pledge my toast—to Truth and the Truth Seeker!
I walked among them with my cup of blue;It was aflame sometimes, and sometimes trembledWith sweet of all the exquisite things I knew.Yet was I feared to tell the draught, dissembled,My wish to have these strangers taste the brewThat to my lip all sky and sun resembled.
I walked among them, holding up my grail;Holding it steady, bidding to the drinking.It was the best I knew; luminous, pale,Changeful and fiery in its bubbled winking;I watched its vital depth grow warm and sunny,Ethereal-bitter—sometimes sweet as honey.
I walked among them with my cup of blue;They laughed and turned to chatter at my rapture.“What cup is this,” they asked, “of simple brew?What un-sure Wine, what grail of dullard’s capture?This is no drink to slake our fevered dryness;This mead for us would hold but acid wryness.”
I walk among them with my azure bowl,To fete and market-place and to the threshing;Today there is no feast, there is no soulBut craves the cup I bring, nor its refreshing,And yet in vain I raise my flashing beakerAnd pledge my toast—to Truth and the Truth Seeker!
When the long shadows fell across the wind,And the dense sheep moved grayly on the moor,How was it with you, Island Amerind,Sitting dream-bound beside your Shimmo door?Did tides that curved the ripples to that shoreRemind you that somewhere the Source must beThat sent you, outward ripple of a race half spent—Bewildered son of hidden continent?Dark, dying Indian, with grave hand bowedIn untaught dreaming of dark ancestry,Saw’st coast and vineyard and the stalwart crowdOf young red men embarking on the sea?Or up great rivers in some land of rain,In swift canoes chasing the brilliant feather,Or dancing God-thoughts in the harvest weather?All gone? No trail? No scrolléd birch barks signTo hand the tale from father down to son?What meaning was in totems’ reptiled line?What old taboo in crest and trophy won?What mightiest Chieftain led the hunting boutOr what dark Sachem fathered all the swarmsOf circled fire lights’ solemn squatting forms?Maybe the Outward Trail was marked with starsThat shone of old in ancient weather book;Perhaps old campfires lit old forest scars,Or in the sky where some Great Spirit shookA mighty spear: perhaps thy brothers stayedTo welcome thee, when stern and unafraidThy moccasined feet fared those mysterious trailsThat Aqueous Time like clear brook water veils.
When the long shadows fell across the wind,And the dense sheep moved grayly on the moor,How was it with you, Island Amerind,Sitting dream-bound beside your Shimmo door?Did tides that curved the ripples to that shoreRemind you that somewhere the Source must beThat sent you, outward ripple of a race half spent—Bewildered son of hidden continent?Dark, dying Indian, with grave hand bowedIn untaught dreaming of dark ancestry,Saw’st coast and vineyard and the stalwart crowdOf young red men embarking on the sea?Or up great rivers in some land of rain,In swift canoes chasing the brilliant feather,Or dancing God-thoughts in the harvest weather?All gone? No trail? No scrolléd birch barks signTo hand the tale from father down to son?What meaning was in totems’ reptiled line?What old taboo in crest and trophy won?What mightiest Chieftain led the hunting boutOr what dark Sachem fathered all the swarmsOf circled fire lights’ solemn squatting forms?Maybe the Outward Trail was marked with starsThat shone of old in ancient weather book;Perhaps old campfires lit old forest scars,Or in the sky where some Great Spirit shookA mighty spear: perhaps thy brothers stayedTo welcome thee, when stern and unafraidThy moccasined feet fared those mysterious trailsThat Aqueous Time like clear brook water veils.
When the long shadows fell across the wind,And the dense sheep moved grayly on the moor,How was it with you, Island Amerind,Sitting dream-bound beside your Shimmo door?Did tides that curved the ripples to that shoreRemind you that somewhere the Source must beThat sent you, outward ripple of a race half spent—Bewildered son of hidden continent?
Dark, dying Indian, with grave hand bowedIn untaught dreaming of dark ancestry,Saw’st coast and vineyard and the stalwart crowdOf young red men embarking on the sea?Or up great rivers in some land of rain,In swift canoes chasing the brilliant feather,Or dancing God-thoughts in the harvest weather?
All gone? No trail? No scrolléd birch barks signTo hand the tale from father down to son?What meaning was in totems’ reptiled line?What old taboo in crest and trophy won?What mightiest Chieftain led the hunting boutOr what dark Sachem fathered all the swarmsOf circled fire lights’ solemn squatting forms?
Maybe the Outward Trail was marked with starsThat shone of old in ancient weather book;Perhaps old campfires lit old forest scars,Or in the sky where some Great Spirit shookA mighty spear: perhaps thy brothers stayedTo welcome thee, when stern and unafraidThy moccasined feet fared those mysterious trailsThat Aqueous Time like clear brook water veils.
He came and sat with me, that OneWhom we so fear.And as I lookedCloser upon him, lo! I feltMyself unfearing.“Death,” I asked,“Why is it that no man hath read,Nor understood thee?”Then he gazedWith that dark glory of his eyes,Answering: “If men could knowHow I yearn toward them; if they sawThe things that I would show them; Yea,Could trust, accept, come to me kind,Like little children!It were well!’Twere well, indeed, if this could be.“I am afraid of Life,” said Death, and smiled at me.
He came and sat with me, that OneWhom we so fear.And as I lookedCloser upon him, lo! I feltMyself unfearing.“Death,” I asked,“Why is it that no man hath read,Nor understood thee?”Then he gazedWith that dark glory of his eyes,Answering: “If men could knowHow I yearn toward them; if they sawThe things that I would show them; Yea,Could trust, accept, come to me kind,Like little children!It were well!’Twere well, indeed, if this could be.“I am afraid of Life,” said Death, and smiled at me.
He came and sat with me, that OneWhom we so fear.And as I lookedCloser upon him, lo! I feltMyself unfearing.“Death,” I asked,“Why is it that no man hath read,Nor understood thee?”Then he gazedWith that dark glory of his eyes,Answering: “If men could knowHow I yearn toward them; if they sawThe things that I would show them; Yea,Could trust, accept, come to me kind,Like little children!It were well!’Twere well, indeed, if this could be.“I am afraid of Life,” said Death, and smiled at me.
Still the old rage, O Sea?Blue lightnings buried under snowy shockOf white foam-bodies dying on the rock;Such sobbing passion to be still more free—Still the old yearning ... Sea?Still the old secret ... Sky?Cloud galleons sailing for some coast of Dream,And robber winds a-gallop for the gleamOf Western gold where purple banners fly—Still the old questing ... Sky?Still the old bondage ... Heart?Slave to a beauty that defeats the mind;Enchained, whose bondage even yet may findTrue words, the whole glad wonder to impartMeaning of Sea and Sky and Thee ... O Heart!
Still the old rage, O Sea?Blue lightnings buried under snowy shockOf white foam-bodies dying on the rock;Such sobbing passion to be still more free—Still the old yearning ... Sea?Still the old secret ... Sky?Cloud galleons sailing for some coast of Dream,And robber winds a-gallop for the gleamOf Western gold where purple banners fly—Still the old questing ... Sky?Still the old bondage ... Heart?Slave to a beauty that defeats the mind;Enchained, whose bondage even yet may findTrue words, the whole glad wonder to impartMeaning of Sea and Sky and Thee ... O Heart!
Still the old rage, O Sea?Blue lightnings buried under snowy shockOf white foam-bodies dying on the rock;Such sobbing passion to be still more free—Still the old yearning ... Sea?
Still the old secret ... Sky?Cloud galleons sailing for some coast of Dream,And robber winds a-gallop for the gleamOf Western gold where purple banners fly—Still the old questing ... Sky?
Still the old bondage ... Heart?Slave to a beauty that defeats the mind;Enchained, whose bondage even yet may findTrue words, the whole glad wonder to impartMeaning of Sea and Sky and Thee ... O Heart!
Old figures in a lane,Toward the grey church going;Vines tapping on a pane,Strong wind blowing.Old comers by a lane,Heads bowed and hoary;Stiff knees and tapping cane,Wind knows the story.Old patterns in a lane,Toward the grey church going;Follow through veils of rain,Brown leaves blowing.Old blooming through the lane,Pods, grey and brittle;Wind ... bring all back again—Young, gay, little!
Old figures in a lane,Toward the grey church going;Vines tapping on a pane,Strong wind blowing.Old comers by a lane,Heads bowed and hoary;Stiff knees and tapping cane,Wind knows the story.Old patterns in a lane,Toward the grey church going;Follow through veils of rain,Brown leaves blowing.Old blooming through the lane,Pods, grey and brittle;Wind ... bring all back again—Young, gay, little!
Old figures in a lane,Toward the grey church going;Vines tapping on a pane,Strong wind blowing.
Old comers by a lane,Heads bowed and hoary;Stiff knees and tapping cane,Wind knows the story.
Old patterns in a lane,Toward the grey church going;Follow through veils of rain,Brown leaves blowing.
Old blooming through the lane,Pods, grey and brittle;Wind ... bring all back again—Young, gay, little!
Tonight the ocean calls,The stars respond, wide-scattered through the skies;Swift through the cool of curling wave he hies,Who swims far out, nor sees the shore receding—Only his strength, his long bold measures heeding.Proud in his power, strong,From hateful touch of hands that haunt him, freeHe plunges forward through dark wastes of sea,Passionate in the careless joy of roamingThrough billowed gulfs, forgetful of his homing.Tranced in the summer night,Lying far out on the high-breasted deep,He dreams alone. Lo! In illumined sleep,White Naiads gleam in dim sea-groves and hollows,Under the tide-drawn heaving path he follows.Until the stars slip down,And to far shores the pale night drifts away;Then he turns back to meet the break of day,Through the broad surges in blind rapture leaping,Until he feels the sand and the foam creeping.
Tonight the ocean calls,The stars respond, wide-scattered through the skies;Swift through the cool of curling wave he hies,Who swims far out, nor sees the shore receding—Only his strength, his long bold measures heeding.Proud in his power, strong,From hateful touch of hands that haunt him, freeHe plunges forward through dark wastes of sea,Passionate in the careless joy of roamingThrough billowed gulfs, forgetful of his homing.Tranced in the summer night,Lying far out on the high-breasted deep,He dreams alone. Lo! In illumined sleep,White Naiads gleam in dim sea-groves and hollows,Under the tide-drawn heaving path he follows.Until the stars slip down,And to far shores the pale night drifts away;Then he turns back to meet the break of day,Through the broad surges in blind rapture leaping,Until he feels the sand and the foam creeping.
Tonight the ocean calls,The stars respond, wide-scattered through the skies;Swift through the cool of curling wave he hies,Who swims far out, nor sees the shore receding—Only his strength, his long bold measures heeding.
Proud in his power, strong,From hateful touch of hands that haunt him, freeHe plunges forward through dark wastes of sea,Passionate in the careless joy of roamingThrough billowed gulfs, forgetful of his homing.
Tranced in the summer night,Lying far out on the high-breasted deep,He dreams alone. Lo! In illumined sleep,White Naiads gleam in dim sea-groves and hollows,Under the tide-drawn heaving path he follows.
Until the stars slip down,And to far shores the pale night drifts away;Then he turns back to meet the break of day,Through the broad surges in blind rapture leaping,Until he feels the sand and the foam creeping.
All day the silver-headed craftsman bendsOver the broken chain, the gemless rings,The voiceless clock, the fragile fan, and mendsWith delicate fingers rare broken things.I gaze on him, on gems and glimmering gold,See light restoring touches, magic skill;Till to my heart come strange imaginingsOf ruined lives I know, shattered and still.O Craftsman! Here is mettle, dull and old;Look on these broken lives. Can’st thou remold?Can’st thou, with color, love designs refill—Bring beauty out of sorrow’s patternings?
All day the silver-headed craftsman bendsOver the broken chain, the gemless rings,The voiceless clock, the fragile fan, and mendsWith delicate fingers rare broken things.I gaze on him, on gems and glimmering gold,See light restoring touches, magic skill;Till to my heart come strange imaginingsOf ruined lives I know, shattered and still.O Craftsman! Here is mettle, dull and old;Look on these broken lives. Can’st thou remold?Can’st thou, with color, love designs refill—Bring beauty out of sorrow’s patternings?
All day the silver-headed craftsman bendsOver the broken chain, the gemless rings,The voiceless clock, the fragile fan, and mendsWith delicate fingers rare broken things.I gaze on him, on gems and glimmering gold,See light restoring touches, magic skill;Till to my heart come strange imaginingsOf ruined lives I know, shattered and still.O Craftsman! Here is mettle, dull and old;Look on these broken lives. Can’st thou remold?Can’st thou, with color, love designs refill—Bring beauty out of sorrow’s patternings?
Wrapped in his crimson gown and cowl,Beside her slender form he stood;There by the grassy brook they strayed,And sun-rise thrush and moonlight owlKnew that she listened while he wooed.So blue her eyes, so golden fellThe sunny hair about her face;She stepped with delicate sweet prideAlong the grasses, close besideThe brook’s cool lily-shadowed place.“It was a shame that they should goThus side by side, at last to part,”Earth said: “Mine all this color now,Her soft blue eyes, gold hair and brow,The red blood in his ardent heart.”Men say, “They died.” They passed away;I am not sure what trail they took.But where the grasses bend and sway,Red Cardinal flower burns its way—Forget-me-nots grow in the brook.
Wrapped in his crimson gown and cowl,Beside her slender form he stood;There by the grassy brook they strayed,And sun-rise thrush and moonlight owlKnew that she listened while he wooed.So blue her eyes, so golden fellThe sunny hair about her face;She stepped with delicate sweet prideAlong the grasses, close besideThe brook’s cool lily-shadowed place.“It was a shame that they should goThus side by side, at last to part,”Earth said: “Mine all this color now,Her soft blue eyes, gold hair and brow,The red blood in his ardent heart.”Men say, “They died.” They passed away;I am not sure what trail they took.But where the grasses bend and sway,Red Cardinal flower burns its way—Forget-me-nots grow in the brook.
Wrapped in his crimson gown and cowl,Beside her slender form he stood;There by the grassy brook they strayed,And sun-rise thrush and moonlight owlKnew that she listened while he wooed.
So blue her eyes, so golden fellThe sunny hair about her face;She stepped with delicate sweet prideAlong the grasses, close besideThe brook’s cool lily-shadowed place.
“It was a shame that they should goThus side by side, at last to part,”Earth said: “Mine all this color now,Her soft blue eyes, gold hair and brow,The red blood in his ardent heart.”
Men say, “They died.” They passed away;I am not sure what trail they took.But where the grasses bend and sway,Red Cardinal flower burns its way—Forget-me-nots grow in the brook.