SEA SONG
I willthink no more of the sea!Of the big green wavesAnd the hollowed shore,Of the brown rock cavesNo more, no moreOf the swell and the weedAnd the bubbling foam.Memory dwells in my far away home,She has nothing to do with me.She is old and bentWith a packOn her back.Her tears all spent,Her voice, just a crack.With an old thorn stickShe hobbles along,And a crazy songNow slow, now quickWheeks in her throat.And every dayWhile there’s light on the shoreShe searches for something,Her withered clawTumbles the seaweed;She pokes in each shellGroping and mumblingUntil the nightDeepens and darkens,And covers her quite,And bids her be silent,And bids her be still.The ghostly feetOf the whispery wavesTiptoe beside her.They follow, followTo the rocky cavesIn the white beach hollow ...She hugs her hands,She sobs, she shrills,And the echoes shriekIn the rocky hills.She moans: “It is lost!Let it be! Let it be!I am old. I’m too cold.I am frightened ... the seaIs too loud ... it is lost,It is gone...” MemoryWails in my far away home.1913.
I willthink no more of the sea!Of the big green wavesAnd the hollowed shore,Of the brown rock cavesNo more, no moreOf the swell and the weedAnd the bubbling foam.Memory dwells in my far away home,She has nothing to do with me.She is old and bentWith a packOn her back.Her tears all spent,Her voice, just a crack.With an old thorn stickShe hobbles along,And a crazy songNow slow, now quickWheeks in her throat.And every dayWhile there’s light on the shoreShe searches for something,Her withered clawTumbles the seaweed;She pokes in each shellGroping and mumblingUntil the nightDeepens and darkens,And covers her quite,And bids her be silent,And bids her be still.The ghostly feetOf the whispery wavesTiptoe beside her.They follow, followTo the rocky cavesIn the white beach hollow ...She hugs her hands,She sobs, she shrills,And the echoes shriekIn the rocky hills.She moans: “It is lost!Let it be! Let it be!I am old. I’m too cold.I am frightened ... the seaIs too loud ... it is lost,It is gone...” MemoryWails in my far away home.1913.
I willthink no more of the sea!Of the big green wavesAnd the hollowed shore,Of the brown rock cavesNo more, no moreOf the swell and the weedAnd the bubbling foam.
Memory dwells in my far away home,She has nothing to do with me.
She is old and bentWith a packOn her back.Her tears all spent,Her voice, just a crack.With an old thorn stickShe hobbles along,And a crazy songNow slow, now quickWheeks in her throat.
And every dayWhile there’s light on the shoreShe searches for something,Her withered clawTumbles the seaweed;She pokes in each shellGroping and mumblingUntil the nightDeepens and darkens,And covers her quite,And bids her be silent,And bids her be still.
The ghostly feetOf the whispery wavesTiptoe beside her.They follow, followTo the rocky cavesIn the white beach hollow ...She hugs her hands,She sobs, she shrills,And the echoes shriekIn the rocky hills.She moans: “It is lost!Let it be! Let it be!I am old. I’m too cold.I am frightened ... the seaIs too loud ... it is lost,It is gone...” MemoryWails in my far away home.
1913.