I long to see the solan-gooseWing over Ailsa cragAt dusk again—or Girvan gulls at dawn;To see the osprey grayly glideThe winds of Kamasaig:For grayness now my heart is set upon.The grayness of sea-spaces whereThere's loneliness alone,Save for the wings that sweep it with unrest,Save for the hunger-cries that soundAnd die into a moan,Save for the moaning hunger in my breast.For grayness is the hue of allIn life that is not lies.A thousand years of tears are in my heart;And only in their mysteryCan I be truly wise:From light and laughter follies only start.I long to see the mists againAbove the tumbling tideOf Ailsa, at the coming of the night.There's weariness and emptinessAnd soul unsatisfiedForever in the places of delight.
I long to see the solan-gooseWing over Ailsa cragAt dusk again—or Girvan gulls at dawn;To see the osprey grayly glideThe winds of Kamasaig:For grayness now my heart is set upon.
The grayness of sea-spaces whereThere's loneliness alone,Save for the wings that sweep it with unrest,Save for the hunger-cries that soundAnd die into a moan,Save for the moaning hunger in my breast.
For grayness is the hue of allIn life that is not lies.A thousand years of tears are in my heart;And only in their mysteryCan I be truly wise:From light and laughter follies only start.
I long to see the mists againAbove the tumbling tideOf Ailsa, at the coming of the night.There's weariness and emptinessAnd soul unsatisfiedForever in the places of delight.
What memories have I of it,The sea, continent-clasping,The sea whose spirit is a sorcery,The sea whose magic foaming is immortal!What memories have I of it thro the years!What memories of its shores!...Of shadowy headlands doomed to stay the storm;And red cliffs clawing ever into the tides;Of misty moors whose royal heather purples;Of channeled marshes, village-nesting hills;Of crags wind-eaten, homes of hungry gulls;Of bays—Where sails float furled, resting softly at harbour,Until, winging again, they sweep away.What memories have I, too,Of faring out at dawn upon tameless waters,Upon the infinite wasted yearning of them,While winds, the mystic harp-strings of the world,Were sounding sweet farewells;While coast and lighthouse tower were fading fast,And from me all the world slipped like a garment.What memories of mid-deeps!...Of heaving on thro haunted vasts of foam,Thro swaying terrors of tormented tides;While the wind, no more singing, took to raving,In rhythmic infinite words,A chantey ancient and immeasurableConcerning man and God.What memories of fog-spaces—Wide leaden deserts of dim wavelessness,Smooth porpoise-broken glassAs gray as a dream upon despair's horizon;What sailing soft till lo the shroud was liftedAnd suddenly there came, as a great joy,The blue sublimity of summer skies,The azure mystery of happy heavens,The passionate sweet parley of the breeze,And dancing waves—that lured us on and onPast islands above whose verdant mountain-headsEnchanted clouds were hanging,And whence wild spices wandered;Past iridescent reefs and vessels boundFor ports unknown:O far, far past, until the sun, in fire,An impotent and shrunken orb lay dying,On heaving twilight purple gathered round.And then, what nights!...The phantom moon in misty resurrectionArising from her sepulchre in the EastAnd sparkling the dark waters—The unremembering moon!And covenants of star to faithful star,Dewy, like tears of God, across the sky;And under the moon's fair ring Orion runningForever in great war adown the West.What far, infinite nights!With cloud-horizons where the lightning slumberedOr wakened once and again with startled watch,Again to fall asleepAnd leave the moon-path free for all my thoughtsTo wander peacefullyAway and still awayUntil the stars sighed out in dawn's great pallor,Just as the lands of my desire appeared.What memories ... have I of it!
What memories have I of it,The sea, continent-clasping,The sea whose spirit is a sorcery,The sea whose magic foaming is immortal!What memories have I of it thro the years!
What memories of its shores!...Of shadowy headlands doomed to stay the storm;And red cliffs clawing ever into the tides;Of misty moors whose royal heather purples;Of channeled marshes, village-nesting hills;Of crags wind-eaten, homes of hungry gulls;Of bays—Where sails float furled, resting softly at harbour,Until, winging again, they sweep away.
What memories have I, too,Of faring out at dawn upon tameless waters,Upon the infinite wasted yearning of them,While winds, the mystic harp-strings of the world,Were sounding sweet farewells;While coast and lighthouse tower were fading fast,And from me all the world slipped like a garment.
What memories of mid-deeps!...Of heaving on thro haunted vasts of foam,Thro swaying terrors of tormented tides;While the wind, no more singing, took to raving,In rhythmic infinite words,A chantey ancient and immeasurableConcerning man and God.
What memories of fog-spaces—Wide leaden deserts of dim wavelessness,Smooth porpoise-broken glassAs gray as a dream upon despair's horizon;What sailing soft till lo the shroud was liftedAnd suddenly there came, as a great joy,The blue sublimity of summer skies,The azure mystery of happy heavens,The passionate sweet parley of the breeze,And dancing waves—that lured us on and onPast islands above whose verdant mountain-headsEnchanted clouds were hanging,And whence wild spices wandered;Past iridescent reefs and vessels boundFor ports unknown:O far, far past, until the sun, in fire,An impotent and shrunken orb lay dying,On heaving twilight purple gathered round.
And then, what nights!...The phantom moon in misty resurrectionArising from her sepulchre in the EastAnd sparkling the dark waters—The unremembering moon!And covenants of star to faithful star,Dewy, like tears of God, across the sky;And under the moon's fair ring Orion runningForever in great war adown the West.What far, infinite nights!With cloud-horizons where the lightning slumberedOr wakened once and again with startled watch,Again to fall asleepAnd leave the moon-path free for all my thoughtsTo wander peacefullyAway and still awayUntil the stars sighed out in dawn's great pallor,Just as the lands of my desire appeared.
What memories ... have I of it!
The seven fleets of VeniceSet sail across the seaFor Cyprus and for TrebizondAyoub and Araby.Their gonfalons are floating far,St. Mark's has heard the mass,And to the noon the salt lagoonLies white, like burning glass.The seven fleets of Venice—And each its way to go,Led by a Falier or Tron,Zorzi or Dandalo.The Patriarch has blessed them all,The Doge has waved the word,And in their wings the murmuringsOf waiting winds are heard.The seven fleets of Venice—And what shall be their fate?One shall return with porphyryAnd pearl and fair agàte.One shall return with spice and spoilAnd silk of Samarcand.But nevermore shallonewin o'erThe sea, to any land.Oh, they shall bring the East back,And they shall bring the West,The seven fleets our Venice setsA-sail upon her quest.But some shall bring despair backAnd some shall leave their keelsDeeper than wind or wave frets,Or sun ever steals.
The seven fleets of VeniceSet sail across the seaFor Cyprus and for TrebizondAyoub and Araby.Their gonfalons are floating far,St. Mark's has heard the mass,And to the noon the salt lagoonLies white, like burning glass.
The seven fleets of Venice—And each its way to go,Led by a Falier or Tron,Zorzi or Dandalo.The Patriarch has blessed them all,The Doge has waved the word,And in their wings the murmuringsOf waiting winds are heard.
The seven fleets of Venice—And what shall be their fate?One shall return with porphyryAnd pearl and fair agàte.One shall return with spice and spoilAnd silk of Samarcand.But nevermore shallonewin o'erThe sea, to any land.
Oh, they shall bring the East back,And they shall bring the West,The seven fleets our Venice setsA-sail upon her quest.But some shall bring despair backAnd some shall leave their keelsDeeper than wind or wave frets,Or sun ever steals.
Give me a spot in the sun,With a lizard basking by me,In Sicily, over the sea,Where Winter is sweet as Spring,Where Etna lifts his plumeOf curling smoke to try me,But all in vain for I will not climbHis height so ravishing.Give me a spot in the sun,So high on a cliff that, under,Far down, the flecking sailsLike white moths flit the blue;That over me on a cragThere hangs, O aëry wonder,A white town drowsing in its nestThat cypress-tops peep thro.Give me a spot in the sun,With contadini singing,And a goat-boy at his pipesAnd donkey bells heard roundUpon steep mountain pathsWhere a peasant cart comes swingingMid joyous hot invectives—thatSo blameless here abound.Give me a spot in the sun,In a land whose speech is flowers,Whose breath is Hybla-sweet,Whose soul is still a faun's,Whose limbs the sea enlaps,Thro long delicious hours,With liquid tenderness and lightSweet as Elysian dawns.Give me a spot in the sunWith a view past vale and villa,Past grottoed isle and seaTo Italy and the CapeAround whose turning liesOld heathen-hearted Scylla,Whom may an ancient sailor prayedThe gods he might escape.Give me a spot in the sun:With sly old Pan as lazyAs I, ever to tempt meTo disbelief and doubtOf all gods else, from JoveTo Bacchus born wine-crazy.Give me, I say, a spot in the sun,And Realms I'll do without!
Give me a spot in the sun,With a lizard basking by me,In Sicily, over the sea,Where Winter is sweet as Spring,Where Etna lifts his plumeOf curling smoke to try me,But all in vain for I will not climbHis height so ravishing.
Give me a spot in the sun,So high on a cliff that, under,Far down, the flecking sailsLike white moths flit the blue;That over me on a cragThere hangs, O aëry wonder,A white town drowsing in its nestThat cypress-tops peep thro.
Give me a spot in the sun,With contadini singing,And a goat-boy at his pipesAnd donkey bells heard roundUpon steep mountain pathsWhere a peasant cart comes swingingMid joyous hot invectives—thatSo blameless here abound.
Give me a spot in the sun,In a land whose speech is flowers,Whose breath is Hybla-sweet,Whose soul is still a faun's,Whose limbs the sea enlaps,Thro long delicious hours,With liquid tenderness and lightSweet as Elysian dawns.
Give me a spot in the sunWith a view past vale and villa,Past grottoed isle and seaTo Italy and the CapeAround whose turning liesOld heathen-hearted Scylla,Whom may an ancient sailor prayedThe gods he might escape.
Give me a spot in the sun:With sly old Pan as lazyAs I, ever to tempt meTo disbelief and doubtOf all gods else, from JoveTo Bacchus born wine-crazy.Give me, I say, a spot in the sun,And Realms I'll do without!
What have I gathered the years did not take from me?(Swallows, hear, as you fly from the cold!)Whom have I bound to me never to break from me?(Whom, O wind of the wold?)Whom, O wind! O hunter of spirits!(Pierce his spirit whose spear is in mine!)Then let Oblivion loose this ache from me, Proserpine!Lyre and the laurel the Muses gave to me,(Why comes summer when winter is nigh!)Spent am I now and pain-voices rave to me.(O sea and its cry!)O the sea that has suffered all sorrow!(Sea of the Delphian tongue ever shrill!)Nought from the wreck of love can now save to meAny thrill!Life that we live passes pale or amorous.(Tread, O vintagers, grapes in the press!)Mine's but a prey to Erinñyes clamorous.(O for wine that will bless!)Wine that foams, but is free of all madness(Free, O Cypris, of fury's breath!)Free as I now shall be, O glamorousQueen of Death!
What have I gathered the years did not take from me?(Swallows, hear, as you fly from the cold!)Whom have I bound to me never to break from me?(Whom, O wind of the wold?)Whom, O wind! O hunter of spirits!(Pierce his spirit whose spear is in mine!)Then let Oblivion loose this ache from me, Proserpine!
Lyre and the laurel the Muses gave to me,(Why comes summer when winter is nigh!)Spent am I now and pain-voices rave to me.(O sea and its cry!)O the sea that has suffered all sorrow!(Sea of the Delphian tongue ever shrill!)Nought from the wreck of love can now save to meAny thrill!
Life that we live passes pale or amorous.(Tread, O vintagers, grapes in the press!)Mine's but a prey to Erinñyes clamorous.(O for wine that will bless!)Wine that foams, but is free of all madness(Free, O Cypris, of fury's breath!)Free as I now shall be, O glamorousQueen of Death!
A star that I love,The sea, and I,Spake together across the night."Have peace," said the star,"Have power," said the sea;"Yea!" I answered, "and Fame's delight!"The wind on his wayTo ArabyPaused and listened and sighed and said,"I passed on the sandsA Pharaoh's tomb:All these did he have—and he is dead."
A star that I love,The sea, and I,Spake together across the night."Have peace," said the star,"Have power," said the sea;"Yea!" I answered, "and Fame's delight!"The wind on his wayTo ArabyPaused and listened and sighed and said,"I passed on the sandsA Pharaoh's tomb:All these did he have—and he is dead."
Under the sea, which is their sky, they riseTo watery altitudes as vast as thoseOf far Himàlayan peaks impent in snowsAnd veils of cloud and sacred deep repose.Under the sea, their flowing firmament,More dark than any ray of sun can pierce,The earthquake thrust them up with mighty tierceAnd left them to be seen but by the eyesOf awed imagination inward bent.Their vegetation is the viscid ooze,Whose mysteries are past belief or thought.Creation seems around them devil-wrought,Or by some cosmic urgence gone distraught.Adown their precipices chill and denseWith the dank midnight creep or crawl or climbSuch tentacled and eyeless things of slime,Such monster shapes as tempt us to accuseLife of a miscreative impotence.About their peaks the shark, their eagle, floats,In the thick azure far beneath the air,Or downward sweeps upon what prey may dareSet forth from any silent weedy lair.But one desire on all their slopes is found,Desire of food, the awful hunger strife,Yet here, it may be, was begun our lifeHere all the dreams on which our vision dotesIn unevolved obscurity were bound.Too strange it is, too terrible! And yetIt matters not how we were wrought or whenceLife came to us with all its throb intenseIf in it is a Godly Immanence.It matters not,—if haply we are moreThan creatures half-conceived by a blind forceThat sweeps the universe in a chance course:For only in Unmeaning Might is metThe intolerable thought none can ignore.
Under the sea, which is their sky, they riseTo watery altitudes as vast as thoseOf far Himàlayan peaks impent in snowsAnd veils of cloud and sacred deep repose.Under the sea, their flowing firmament,More dark than any ray of sun can pierce,The earthquake thrust them up with mighty tierceAnd left them to be seen but by the eyesOf awed imagination inward bent.
Their vegetation is the viscid ooze,Whose mysteries are past belief or thought.Creation seems around them devil-wrought,Or by some cosmic urgence gone distraught.Adown their precipices chill and denseWith the dank midnight creep or crawl or climbSuch tentacled and eyeless things of slime,Such monster shapes as tempt us to accuseLife of a miscreative impotence.
About their peaks the shark, their eagle, floats,In the thick azure far beneath the air,Or downward sweeps upon what prey may dareSet forth from any silent weedy lair.But one desire on all their slopes is found,Desire of food, the awful hunger strife,Yet here, it may be, was begun our lifeHere all the dreams on which our vision dotesIn unevolved obscurity were bound.
Too strange it is, too terrible! And yetIt matters not how we were wrought or whenceLife came to us with all its throb intenseIf in it is a Godly Immanence.It matters not,—if haply we are moreThan creatures half-conceived by a blind forceThat sweeps the universe in a chance course:For only in Unmeaning Might is metThe intolerable thought none can ignore.
Come over the tide,Come over the foam,Dance on the hurricane, leap its waves,Dream not of the calm sea-cavesNor of content in them and home.For that is the reason the hearts of menAre ever weary—they would abideSomewhere out of the spumy strideOf the world's spindrift—a want denied.That is the reason: tho they knowThat the restive years have no true home,But only a Whence, Whither, and When—Whence and Whither, for hearts to roam.So who would tarry and rest the while,Not dance as we, and sing on the wind,Against the whole flow of the world has sinned,And soon is weary and cannot smile.Dance then, dance, on the fleeting spray!None can gather eternityInto his heart and bid it stay,Swiftly again it slips away.Dance, and know that the will of LifeIs the wind's will and the will of the tide,And who finds not a home in its strifeShall find no home on any side!
Come over the tide,Come over the foam,Dance on the hurricane, leap its waves,Dream not of the calm sea-cavesNor of content in them and home.For that is the reason the hearts of menAre ever weary—they would abideSomewhere out of the spumy strideOf the world's spindrift—a want denied.That is the reason: tho they knowThat the restive years have no true home,But only a Whence, Whither, and When—Whence and Whither, for hearts to roam.So who would tarry and rest the while,Not dance as we, and sing on the wind,Against the whole flow of the world has sinned,And soon is weary and cannot smile.Dance then, dance, on the fleeting spray!None can gather eternityInto his heart and bid it stay,Swiftly again it slips away.Dance, and know that the will of LifeIs the wind's will and the will of the tide,And who finds not a home in its strifeShall find no home on any side!
Who looks too long from his windowAt the gray, wide, cold sea,Where breakers scour the beachesWith fingers of sharp foam;Who looks too long thro the gray paneAt the mad, wild, bold sea,Shall sell his hearth to a strangerAnd turn his back on home.Who looks too long from his window—Tho his wife waits by the fireside—At a ship's wings in the offing,At a gull's wings on air,Shall latch his gate behind him,Tho his cattle call from the byre-side,And kiss his wife—and leave her—And wander everywhere.Who looks too long in the twilight,Or the dawn-light, or the noon-light,Who sees an anchor liftedAnd hungers past content,Shall pack his chest for the world's end,For alien sun—or moonlight,And follow the wind, sateless,To Disillusionment!
Who looks too long from his windowAt the gray, wide, cold sea,Where breakers scour the beachesWith fingers of sharp foam;Who looks too long thro the gray paneAt the mad, wild, bold sea,Shall sell his hearth to a strangerAnd turn his back on home.
Who looks too long from his window—Tho his wife waits by the fireside—At a ship's wings in the offing,At a gull's wings on air,Shall latch his gate behind him,Tho his cattle call from the byre-side,And kiss his wife—and leave her—And wander everywhere.
Who looks too long in the twilight,Or the dawn-light, or the noon-light,Who sees an anchor liftedAnd hungers past content,Shall pack his chest for the world's end,For alien sun—or moonlight,And follow the wind, sateless,To Disillusionment!
Because the sun like a Chinese lanternSet in a temple of clouds tonight,I was back in K'u-Kiang!Because in a temple of dragon clouds,As if with incense misty red,It hung there over the rim of the sea,I was back in a narrow street,Where amber faces pass all day,Going to pay, going to pray,Going the same old human wayThey have gone for a thousand years, men say,In K'u-Kiang.And I heard the coolie cry for his fare,I heard the merchant praise his wareOf bronze and porcelain set to snare,In K'u-Kiang!I saw strange streaming signs in blackWith gold and crimson on their back—Opiate signs in an opiate street;Where the slip and patter of felt-shod feetIs old as the sun;And the temple doorAs cool and dark as the night.And where dim lanterns, swinging there,As a lure to human grief and care,Half reveal and half concealThe ancestral gloom of the gods.I saw all this with sudden pang,As if by hashish swept or bhang,Because the sun, like a Chinese lantern,Set in a temple of clouds!
Because the sun like a Chinese lanternSet in a temple of clouds tonight,I was back in K'u-Kiang!
Because in a temple of dragon clouds,As if with incense misty red,It hung there over the rim of the sea,I was back in a narrow street,Where amber faces pass all day,Going to pay, going to pray,Going the same old human wayThey have gone for a thousand years, men say,In K'u-Kiang.
And I heard the coolie cry for his fare,I heard the merchant praise his wareOf bronze and porcelain set to snare,In K'u-Kiang!I saw strange streaming signs in blackWith gold and crimson on their back—Opiate signs in an opiate street;Where the slip and patter of felt-shod feetIs old as the sun;And the temple doorAs cool and dark as the night.
And where dim lanterns, swinging there,As a lure to human grief and care,Half reveal and half concealThe ancestral gloom of the gods.
I saw all this with sudden pang,As if by hashish swept or bhang,Because the sun, like a Chinese lantern,Set in a temple of clouds!
I was weary and slept on the Peak;The air clung close like a shroud,And ever the blue-fly at my earBuzzed haunting, hot and loud;I awoke and the sky was dunWith awe and a dread that soonWent shuddering thro my heart, for I knewThat it meant typhoon! typhoon!In the harbour below, far down,The junks like fowl in a flockWere tossing in wingless terror, or fledFluttering in from the shock.The city, a breathless bendOf roofs, by the water strewn,Lay silent and waiting, yet there was noneWithin it but said typhoon!Then it came, like a million windsGone mad immeasurably,A torrid and tortuous tempest stungBy rape of the fair South Sea.And it swept like a scud escapedFrom crater of sun or moon,And struck as no power of Heaven could,Or of Hell—typhoon! typhoon!And the junks were smitten and torn,The drowning struggled and cried,Or, dashed on the granite walls of the sea,In succourless hundreds died.Till I shut the sight from my eyesAnd prayed for my soul to swoon:If ever I see God's face, let itBe guiltless of that typhoon!
I was weary and slept on the Peak;The air clung close like a shroud,And ever the blue-fly at my earBuzzed haunting, hot and loud;I awoke and the sky was dunWith awe and a dread that soonWent shuddering thro my heart, for I knewThat it meant typhoon! typhoon!
In the harbour below, far down,The junks like fowl in a flockWere tossing in wingless terror, or fledFluttering in from the shock.The city, a breathless bendOf roofs, by the water strewn,Lay silent and waiting, yet there was noneWithin it but said typhoon!
Then it came, like a million windsGone mad immeasurably,A torrid and tortuous tempest stungBy rape of the fair South Sea.And it swept like a scud escapedFrom crater of sun or moon,And struck as no power of Heaven could,Or of Hell—typhoon! typhoon!
And the junks were smitten and torn,The drowning struggled and cried,Or, dashed on the granite walls of the sea,In succourless hundreds died.Till I shut the sight from my eyesAnd prayed for my soul to swoon:If ever I see God's face, let itBe guiltless of that typhoon!
I want to go back to SingaporeAnd ship along the Straits,To a bungalow I know beside Penang;Where cocoanut palms along the shoreAre waving, and the gatesOf Peace shut Sorrow out forevermore.I want to go back and hear the surfCome beating in at night,Like the washing of eternity over the dead.I want to see dawn fare up and dayGo down in golden light;I want to go back to Penang! I want to go back!I want to go back to SingaporeAnd up along the StraitsTo the bungalow that waits me by the tide.Where the Tamil and Malay tell their loreAt evening—and the fatesHave set no soothless canker at life's core.I want to go back and mend my heartBeneath the tropic moon,While the tamarind-tree is whispering thoughts of sleep.I want to believe that Earth againWith Heaven is in tune.I want to go back to Penang! I want to go back!I want to go back to SingaporeAnd ship along the StraitsTo the bungalow I left upon the strand.Where the foam of the world grows faint beforeIt enters, and abatesIn meaning as I hear the palm-wind pour.I want to go back and end my daysSome evening when the CrossOn the southern sky hangs heavily far and sad.I want to remember when I dieThat life elsewhere was loss.I want to go back to Penang! I want to go back!
I want to go back to SingaporeAnd ship along the Straits,To a bungalow I know beside Penang;Where cocoanut palms along the shoreAre waving, and the gatesOf Peace shut Sorrow out forevermore.I want to go back and hear the surfCome beating in at night,Like the washing of eternity over the dead.I want to see dawn fare up and dayGo down in golden light;I want to go back to Penang! I want to go back!
I want to go back to SingaporeAnd up along the StraitsTo the bungalow that waits me by the tide.Where the Tamil and Malay tell their loreAt evening—and the fatesHave set no soothless canker at life's core.I want to go back and mend my heartBeneath the tropic moon,While the tamarind-tree is whispering thoughts of sleep.I want to believe that Earth againWith Heaven is in tune.I want to go back to Penang! I want to go back!
I want to go back to SingaporeAnd ship along the StraitsTo the bungalow I left upon the strand.Where the foam of the world grows faint beforeIt enters, and abatesIn meaning as I hear the palm-wind pour.I want to go back and end my daysSome evening when the CrossOn the southern sky hangs heavily far and sad.I want to remember when I dieThat life elsewhere was loss.I want to go back to Penang! I want to go back!
Nights on the Indian Ocean,Long nights of moon and foam,When silvery Venus low in the skyFollows the sun home.Long nights when the mild monsoonIs breaking south-by-west,And when soft clouds and the singing shroudsMake all that is seem best.Nights on the Indian Ocean,Long nights of space and dream,When silent Sirius round the PoleSwings on, with steady gleam;When oft the pushing prowSeems pressing where beforeNo prow has ever pressed—or shallFrom hence forevermore.Nights on the Indian Ocean,Long nights—with land at last,Dim land, dissolving the long sea-spellInto a sudden past—That seems as far awayAs this our life shall seemWhen under the shadow of death's shoreWe drop its ended dream.
Nights on the Indian Ocean,Long nights of moon and foam,When silvery Venus low in the skyFollows the sun home.Long nights when the mild monsoonIs breaking south-by-west,And when soft clouds and the singing shroudsMake all that is seem best.
Nights on the Indian Ocean,Long nights of space and dream,When silent Sirius round the PoleSwings on, with steady gleam;When oft the pushing prowSeems pressing where beforeNo prow has ever pressed—or shallFrom hence forevermore.
Nights on the Indian Ocean,Long nights—with land at last,Dim land, dissolving the long sea-spellInto a sudden past—That seems as far awayAs this our life shall seemWhen under the shadow of death's shoreWe drop its ended dream.
My heart, that is Arabia, O see!That talismanic sweep of sunset coast,Which lies like richly wrought enchantment's ghostBefore us, bringing back youth's witchery!"Arabian Nights!" At last to us one comes,The crescent moon upon its purple brow.Will not Haroun and Bagdad rise up nowThere on the shore, to beating of his drums?Is not that gull a roc? That sail Sindbad's?That rocky pinnacle a minaret?Does the wind call to prayer from it? O yetI hear the fancy, fervid as a lad's!"Allah il Allah," rings it; O my heart,Fall prostrate, for to Mecca we are near,That flashing light is but a sign sent clearFrom her, your houri, as her curtains part!Soon she will lean out from her lattice, soon,And bid you climb up to your Paradise,Which is her panting lips and passion eyesUnder the drunken sweetness of the moon!O heart, my heart, drink deeply ere they die,The sunset dome, the minaret, the dreamsFlashing afar from youth's returnless streams:For we, my heart, must grow old, you and I!
My heart, that is Arabia, O see!That talismanic sweep of sunset coast,Which lies like richly wrought enchantment's ghostBefore us, bringing back youth's witchery!
"Arabian Nights!" At last to us one comes,The crescent moon upon its purple brow.Will not Haroun and Bagdad rise up nowThere on the shore, to beating of his drums?
Is not that gull a roc? That sail Sindbad's?That rocky pinnacle a minaret?Does the wind call to prayer from it? O yetI hear the fancy, fervid as a lad's!
"Allah il Allah," rings it; O my heart,Fall prostrate, for to Mecca we are near,That flashing light is but a sign sent clearFrom her, your houri, as her curtains part!
Soon she will lean out from her lattice, soon,And bid you climb up to your Paradise,Which is her panting lips and passion eyesUnder the drunken sweetness of the moon!
O heart, my heart, drink deeply ere they die,The sunset dome, the minaret, the dreamsFlashing afar from youth's returnless streams:For we, my heart, must grow old, you and I!
IThe illimitable leaping of the sea,The mouthing of its madness to the moon,The seething of its endless sorcery,Its prophecy no power can attune,Swept over me as, on the sounding prowOf a great ship that steered into the stars,I stood and felt the awe upon my browOf death and destiny and all that mars.IIThe wind that blew from Cassiopeia castWanly upon my ear a rune that rung;The sailor in his eyrie on the mastSang an "All's well," that to the spirit clungLike a lost voice from some aërial realmWhere ships sail on forever to no shore,Where Time gives Immortality the helm,And fades like a far phantom from life's door.III"And is all well, O Thou Unweariable,Who launchest worlds upon bewildered space,"Rose in me, "All? or did thy hand grow dullBuilding this world that bears a piteous race?O was it launched too soon or launched too late?Or can it be a derelict that driftsBeyond thy ken toward some reef of FateOn which Oblivion's sand forever shifts?"IVThe sea grew softer as I questioned—calmWith mystery that like an answer moved,And from infinity there fell a balm,The old peace that Godis, tho all unproved.The old faith that tho gulfs sidereal stunThe soul, and knowledge drown within their deep,There is no world that wanders, no not oneOf all the millions, that He does not keep.
I
The illimitable leaping of the sea,The mouthing of its madness to the moon,The seething of its endless sorcery,Its prophecy no power can attune,Swept over me as, on the sounding prowOf a great ship that steered into the stars,I stood and felt the awe upon my browOf death and destiny and all that mars.
II
The wind that blew from Cassiopeia castWanly upon my ear a rune that rung;The sailor in his eyrie on the mastSang an "All's well," that to the spirit clungLike a lost voice from some aërial realmWhere ships sail on forever to no shore,Where Time gives Immortality the helm,And fades like a far phantom from life's door.
III
"And is all well, O Thou Unweariable,Who launchest worlds upon bewildered space,"Rose in me, "All? or did thy hand grow dullBuilding this world that bears a piteous race?O was it launched too soon or launched too late?Or can it be a derelict that driftsBeyond thy ken toward some reef of FateOn which Oblivion's sand forever shifts?"
IV
The sea grew softer as I questioned—calmWith mystery that like an answer moved,And from infinity there fell a balm,The old peace that Godis, tho all unproved.The old faith that tho gulfs sidereal stunThe soul, and knowledge drown within their deep,There is no world that wanders, no not oneOf all the millions, that He does not keep.
INight is above me,And Night is above the night.The sea is beside me soughing, or is still.The earth as a somnambulist moves onIn a strange sleep ...A sea-bird cries.And the cry wakes in meDim, dead sea-folk, my sires—Who more than myself are me.Who sat on their beach long nights ago and sawThe sea in its silence;And cursed it or implored;Or with the Cross defied;Then on the morrow in their boats went down.IINight is above me ...And Night is above the night.Rocks are about me, and, beyond, the sand ...And the low reluctant tide,That rushes back to ebb a last farewellTo the flotsam borne so long upon its breast.Rocks ... But the tide is out,And the slime lies naked, like a thing ashamedThat has no hiding-place.And the sea-bird hushes—The bird and all far cries within my blood—And earth as a somnambulist moves on.
I
Night is above me,And Night is above the night.The sea is beside me soughing, or is still.The earth as a somnambulist moves onIn a strange sleep ...A sea-bird cries.And the cry wakes in meDim, dead sea-folk, my sires—Who more than myself are me.Who sat on their beach long nights ago and sawThe sea in its silence;And cursed it or implored;Or with the Cross defied;Then on the morrow in their boats went down.
II
Night is above me ...And Night is above the night.Rocks are about me, and, beyond, the sand ...And the low reluctant tide,That rushes back to ebb a last farewellTo the flotsam borne so long upon its breast.Rocks ... But the tide is out,And the slime lies naked, like a thing ashamedThat has no hiding-place.And the sea-bird hushes—The bird and all far cries within my blood—And earth as a somnambulist moves on.
There is no moon, only the sea and stars;There is no land, only the vessel's bowOn which I stand alone and wonder howMen ever dream of ports beyond the barsOf Finitude that fix the Here and Now.A meteor falls, and foam beneath me breaks;Dim phosphor fires within it faintly die.So soft the sea is that it seems a skyOn which eternity to life awakes.The universe is spread before my face,Worlds where perchance a million seas like thisAre flowing and where tides of pain and blissFind, as on earth, so prevalent a placeThat nothing of their wont we there should miss.The Universe, that man has dared to sayIs but one Being—ah, courageous thought!Which is so vast that hope itself is fraughtWith shame, while saying it, and shrinks away.Shrinks, even as now! For clouds sweep up the skiesAnd darken the wide waters circling round,From out whose deep arises the old soundOf Terror unto which no tongue repliesBut Faith—that nothing ever shall confound.Not only pagan Perseus but the CrossIs shrouded—with wild wind and wilder rain,That on me beat until my soul againSings unsurrendering to fears of Loss.For this I know,—yea, tho all else lie hidUncharted on the waters of our fate,All lands of Whence or Whither, whose estateIn vain imagination seeks to thrid,Yet cannot, for the fog within Death's gate,—This thing I know, that life, whatever its SourceOr Destiny, comes with an upward urge,And that we cannot thwart its mighty surge,But with a joy in strife must keep the course.
There is no moon, only the sea and stars;There is no land, only the vessel's bowOn which I stand alone and wonder howMen ever dream of ports beyond the barsOf Finitude that fix the Here and Now.A meteor falls, and foam beneath me breaks;Dim phosphor fires within it faintly die.So soft the sea is that it seems a skyOn which eternity to life awakes.
The universe is spread before my face,Worlds where perchance a million seas like thisAre flowing and where tides of pain and blissFind, as on earth, so prevalent a placeThat nothing of their wont we there should miss.The Universe, that man has dared to sayIs but one Being—ah, courageous thought!Which is so vast that hope itself is fraughtWith shame, while saying it, and shrinks away.
Shrinks, even as now! For clouds sweep up the skiesAnd darken the wide waters circling round,From out whose deep arises the old soundOf Terror unto which no tongue repliesBut Faith—that nothing ever shall confound.Not only pagan Perseus but the CrossIs shrouded—with wild wind and wilder rain,That on me beat until my soul againSings unsurrendering to fears of Loss.
For this I know,—yea, tho all else lie hidUncharted on the waters of our fate,All lands of Whence or Whither, whose estateIn vain imagination seeks to thrid,Yet cannot, for the fog within Death's gate,—This thing I know, that life, whatever its SourceOr Destiny, comes with an upward urge,And that we cannot thwart its mighty surge,But with a joy in strife must keep the course.
I took the trail to the wooded canyon,The trail from the sea:For I heard a calling in me,A landward calling irresistible in me:—Have done with things of the sea—things of the soul;Have done with waters that slip away from under you.Have done with things faithless, things unfathomable and vain;With the vast deeps of Time and the Hereafter.Have done with the fog-breather, the fog-beguiler;With the foam of the never-resting.Have done with tides and passions, tides and mysteries for a season.Have done with infinite yearnings cast adrift on infinite vagueness—With never a certain sail, never a rudder sure for guidance,With never a compass-needle free of desire.For the ways of earth are good, as well as sea-ways,The peaks of it as well as ports unknown.Not only perils matter, stormy perils, over the pathless,Not only the shoals that sink your ship of dreams.Not only the phantom lure of far horizons,Not only the windy guess at the goals of God.But morning matters, and dew upon the rose,And noon, shadowless noon, and simple sheep on the pastures straying.And toil matters, amid the accustomed corn,And peace matters, the valley-spirit of peace, unprone to wander,Unprone to pierce to the world's end—and past it.And zephyrs matter, that never lift up a sail,Save that of the thistle voyaging over the meadow.And the lark—oh—the sunny lark—as well as the songless petrel,Who cries the foamy length of a thousand leagues.And silence matters, silence free of all surging,Silence, the spirit of happiness and home.And oh how much the laugh of a child matters:More than the green of an island suddenly lit by sun at dawn.And friends, the greetings of friends, how they matter:More than ships that meet and fling a wild ahoy and pass,On any alien tides however enchanted.And the face of love, the evening face of love, at a window waiting,Shall ever a kindled Light on any long-unlifting shore,Shall ever a Harbor Light like that light matter?Ah no! so enough of the sea and the soul for a season.Too long followed they leave life as a dream,Reality as a mirage when port is made."Ever in sight of the human," is the helm-word of the wisest,For earth is not earth to one upon the flood of infinity;To the eye, then, it is but an atom-star, adrift, and oh,No longer warm with the beating of countless hearts.No longer warm with the human throb—the simple breath of today,With yester-hours or the near dreams of to-morrow.No longer rich with the little innumerous blooms of brief delights,Nor all divinely drenched with sympathy.No longer green with the humble grass of duties that must grow,To clothe it against desert aridity.No longer zoned with the air of hope, no longer large with faith—No longer heaven enough—if Heaven fails us!
I took the trail to the wooded canyon,The trail from the sea:For I heard a calling in me,A landward calling irresistible in me:—
Have done with things of the sea—things of the soul;Have done with waters that slip away from under you.Have done with things faithless, things unfathomable and vain;With the vast deeps of Time and the Hereafter.
Have done with the fog-breather, the fog-beguiler;With the foam of the never-resting.Have done with tides and passions, tides and mysteries for a season.Have done with infinite yearnings cast adrift on infinite vagueness—With never a certain sail, never a rudder sure for guidance,With never a compass-needle free of desire.
For the ways of earth are good, as well as sea-ways,The peaks of it as well as ports unknown.Not only perils matter, stormy perils, over the pathless,Not only the shoals that sink your ship of dreams.Not only the phantom lure of far horizons,Not only the windy guess at the goals of God.
But morning matters, and dew upon the rose,And noon, shadowless noon, and simple sheep on the pastures straying.And toil matters, amid the accustomed corn,And peace matters, the valley-spirit of peace, unprone to wander,Unprone to pierce to the world's end—and past it.And zephyrs matter, that never lift up a sail,Save that of the thistle voyaging over the meadow.
And the lark—oh—the sunny lark—as well as the songless petrel,Who cries the foamy length of a thousand leagues.And silence matters, silence free of all surging,Silence, the spirit of happiness and home.
And oh how much the laugh of a child matters:More than the green of an island suddenly lit by sun at dawn.And friends, the greetings of friends, how they matter:More than ships that meet and fling a wild ahoy and pass,On any alien tides however enchanted.And the face of love, the evening face of love, at a window waiting,Shall ever a kindled Light on any long-unlifting shore,Shall ever a Harbor Light like that light matter?
Ah no! so enough of the sea and the soul for a season.Too long followed they leave life as a dream,Reality as a mirage when port is made."Ever in sight of the human," is the helm-word of the wisest,For earth is not earth to one upon the flood of infinity;To the eye, then, it is but an atom-star, adrift, and oh,No longer warm with the beating of countless hearts.
No longer warm with the human throb—the simple breath of today,With yester-hours or the near dreams of to-morrow.No longer rich with the little innumerous blooms of brief delights,Nor all divinely drenched with sympathy.No longer green with the humble grass of duties that must grow,To clothe it against desert aridity.No longer zoned with the air of hope, no longer large with faith—No longer heaven enough—if Heaven fails us!
A gleaming glassy ocean,Under a sky of gray;A tide that dreams of motion,Or moves, as the dead may;A bird that dips and waversOver lone waters round,Then with a cry that quaversIs gone—a spectral sound.The brown sad sea-weed driftingFar from the land, and lost.The faint warm fog unlifting,The derelict long-tossed,But now at rest—tho hauntedBy the death-scenting shark,Whose prey no more undauntedSlips from it, spent and stark.
A gleaming glassy ocean,Under a sky of gray;A tide that dreams of motion,Or moves, as the dead may;A bird that dips and waversOver lone waters round,Then with a cry that quaversIs gone—a spectral sound.
The brown sad sea-weed driftingFar from the land, and lost.The faint warm fog unlifting,The derelict long-tossed,But now at rest—tho hauntedBy the death-scenting shark,Whose prey no more undauntedSlips from it, spent and stark.
It is so, O sea! wild rosesBloom here in the scent of your brine.And the juniper round them closes,And the bays amid them twine,To guard and to praise their beauty;And the gulls above them cry,And the stern rocks stand on duty,Where the surf beats white and high.It is so, O sea! wild roses,With the day-long fog bedrenched,Have come from their inland closesWith a thirst for you unquenched.And over your cliffs they clamber,And over your vast they gaze;For the tides of you can enamourEven them with their woodland ways.Yea, the passion of you and the powerAnd the largeness are a lureTo even the heart of a flower,O sea, with a heart unsure!For love is a thing unsated,Nor ever in any breastHas it dwelt, all want abated,At rest.
It is so, O sea! wild rosesBloom here in the scent of your brine.And the juniper round them closes,And the bays amid them twine,To guard and to praise their beauty;And the gulls above them cry,And the stern rocks stand on duty,Where the surf beats white and high.
It is so, O sea! wild roses,With the day-long fog bedrenched,Have come from their inland closesWith a thirst for you unquenched.And over your cliffs they clamber,And over your vast they gaze;For the tides of you can enamourEven them with their woodland ways.
Yea, the passion of you and the powerAnd the largeness are a lureTo even the heart of a flower,O sea, with a heart unsure!For love is a thing unsated,Nor ever in any breastHas it dwelt, all want abated,At rest.