Men who have loved the ships they took to sea,Loved the tall masts, the prows that creamed with foam,Have learned, deep in their hearts, how it might beThat there is yet a dearer thing than home.The decks they walk, the rigging in the stars,The clean boards counted in the watch they keep,—These, and the sunlight on the slippery spars,Will haunt them ever, waking and asleep.Ashore, these men are not as other men;They walk as strangers through the crowded street,Or, brooding by their fires, they hear againThe drone astern, where gurgling waters meet,Or see again a wide and blue lagoon,And a lone ship that rides there with the moon.
Men who have loved the ships they took to sea,Loved the tall masts, the prows that creamed with foam,Have learned, deep in their hearts, how it might beThat there is yet a dearer thing than home.The decks they walk, the rigging in the stars,The clean boards counted in the watch they keep,—These, and the sunlight on the slippery spars,Will haunt them ever, waking and asleep.
Ashore, these men are not as other men;They walk as strangers through the crowded street,Or, brooding by their fires, they hear againThe drone astern, where gurgling waters meet,Or see again a wide and blue lagoon,And a lone ship that rides there with the moon.
Along this stillness steals their ghostly laughter:The oaths they swore, the clamant song and jest,Are haunting still each oaken beam and rafter,That looked on many a gay, forgotten guest.The clink of cups, the muffled clang of swords,These, and the flapping cards, will not be stilled,Though dust has spread the long-abandoned boards,And hides at last the crimson wine they spilled.And still, they say, on sullen nights of rain,A passer-by may hear, beyond the door,An old accounting for this ugly stainThat makes an evil pattern on the floor—A sound of dice—an oath—a crashing chair ...And sudden, grievous silence fallen there.
Along this stillness steals their ghostly laughter:The oaths they swore, the clamant song and jest,Are haunting still each oaken beam and rafter,That looked on many a gay, forgotten guest.The clink of cups, the muffled clang of swords,These, and the flapping cards, will not be stilled,Though dust has spread the long-abandoned boards,And hides at last the crimson wine they spilled.
And still, they say, on sullen nights of rain,A passer-by may hear, beyond the door,An old accounting for this ugly stainThat makes an evil pattern on the floor—A sound of dice—an oath—a crashing chair ...And sudden, grievous silence fallen there.
Here where these grasses thrust between my fingers,And where the earth against my palms is cool,The hot day dies ... and only late light lingersAbove the shadowed valley's misty pool.The trees have bent above me like tall lovers,The stars return their slow, familiar way,And a great, stirless quiet comes and coversThe traveller resting at the end of day.I think this body, with its foolish fears,May grow less foolish and less fearful so,Learning that at the end of wandering years,Waits but this house that it has come to know,Familiar in its sleepy-hearted mirth,The cool and kind and hospitable earth.
Here where these grasses thrust between my fingers,And where the earth against my palms is cool,The hot day dies ... and only late light lingersAbove the shadowed valley's misty pool.The trees have bent above me like tall lovers,The stars return their slow, familiar way,And a great, stirless quiet comes and coversThe traveller resting at the end of day.
I think this body, with its foolish fears,May grow less foolish and less fearful so,Learning that at the end of wandering years,Waits but this house that it has come to know,Familiar in its sleepy-hearted mirth,The cool and kind and hospitable earth.
This body, gathering slumber as it goes,Will come too full of sleep for wandering,And so lie down,—and yet it somehow knowsIt never could be careless of the Spring;But turning with the happy-minded earth,When straying Aprils stir the sentient mould,It still will know these festivals of mirth,These subtle sorceries of green and gold.And we may yet discover, after all,How flesh is glory whitening on the hedge,Or wine-red tulips burning at a wall;—And we may learn, by some wild-flowered ledge,How solemn dust at last turns gay again,To light the Spring for later, wandering men.
This body, gathering slumber as it goes,Will come too full of sleep for wandering,And so lie down,—and yet it somehow knowsIt never could be careless of the Spring;But turning with the happy-minded earth,When straying Aprils stir the sentient mould,It still will know these festivals of mirth,These subtle sorceries of green and gold.
And we may yet discover, after all,How flesh is glory whitening on the hedge,Or wine-red tulips burning at a wall;—And we may learn, by some wild-flowered ledge,How solemn dust at last turns gay again,To light the Spring for later, wandering men.
This Autumn of the yellow lanesIs come a sorry vagabond,Grown tearful now and over-fondOf grey and melancholy rains.He loves his griefs and broken sighs,His sorrows of a thousand years,—And thinks we do not know those tearsAre wood-smoke in his eyes.If leaves go by us in a gust,He needs must clutch his heart, and say:"Alas" or else "Alack-a-day"—And thinks we take it all on trust.So sad and sad a rake he is!—And yet so glad of being sad,Knowing no fellow ever hadSuch fine, becoming griefs as his.
This Autumn of the yellow lanesIs come a sorry vagabond,Grown tearful now and over-fondOf grey and melancholy rains.
He loves his griefs and broken sighs,His sorrows of a thousand years,—And thinks we do not know those tearsAre wood-smoke in his eyes.
If leaves go by us in a gust,He needs must clutch his heart, and say:"Alas" or else "Alack-a-day"—And thinks we take it all on trust.
So sad and sad a rake he is!—And yet so glad of being sad,Knowing no fellow ever hadSuch fine, becoming griefs as his.
The iron twilight closes, and the steepGates of the day where late the light was hurled,Swing to on silent hinges, and a sleep,A still, white sleep is fallen on the world.There is no stir these trackless miles around:The Earth is turned a grey cathedral close,Where is forgot all motion and all sound,Beneath these smooth, obliterating snows.One burning taper trembles ... and the skyCurves like a dome where cloudy anthems are,Above immaculate distances that lieIn thoughtful adoration of a star ...Earth has her veil, and takes her silent vow:Nothing save holiness is left her now.
The iron twilight closes, and the steepGates of the day where late the light was hurled,Swing to on silent hinges, and a sleep,A still, white sleep is fallen on the world.There is no stir these trackless miles around:The Earth is turned a grey cathedral close,Where is forgot all motion and all sound,Beneath these smooth, obliterating snows.
One burning taper trembles ... and the skyCurves like a dome where cloudy anthems are,Above immaculate distances that lieIn thoughtful adoration of a star ...Earth has her veil, and takes her silent vow:Nothing save holiness is left her now.
This grave, unlabouring beauty of the dusk,Stars and still fields and swallows in the sky,These cool, damp odours faint with earthen musk,The fading sheep like ghosts of sheep gone by,—Have held so long the thought of brooding men,That something like a mood has gathered there,Piled deep and high, again and yet again,A moving, thoughtful presence on the air.So when the last light passes from the hill,Leaving these fields a glimmering grey and blue,And the last bell has sounded and grown still,—These blinking stars awake and tremble through,Re-blossomed from those gathering moods of time,Like brooding thoughts that flower into rhyme.
This grave, unlabouring beauty of the dusk,Stars and still fields and swallows in the sky,These cool, damp odours faint with earthen musk,The fading sheep like ghosts of sheep gone by,—Have held so long the thought of brooding men,That something like a mood has gathered there,Piled deep and high, again and yet again,A moving, thoughtful presence on the air.
So when the last light passes from the hill,Leaving these fields a glimmering grey and blue,And the last bell has sounded and grown still,—These blinking stars awake and tremble through,Re-blossomed from those gathering moods of time,Like brooding thoughts that flower into rhyme.
I have not known a quieter thing than ships,Nor any dreamers steeped in dream as these,For all that they have tracked disastrous seas,And winds that left their sails in flagging strips;Nothing disturbs them now, no stormy gripsThat once had hurt their sides, no crash or swell,Nor can the fretful harbour quite dispelThis quiet that they learned on lonely trips.They have no part in all the noisy noons;They are become as dreams of ships that goBack to the secret waters that they know,Each as she will to unforgot lagoons,Where nothing moves except the ghostly sparsThat mark the patient watches on the stars.
I have not known a quieter thing than ships,Nor any dreamers steeped in dream as these,For all that they have tracked disastrous seas,And winds that left their sails in flagging strips;Nothing disturbs them now, no stormy gripsThat once had hurt their sides, no crash or swell,Nor can the fretful harbour quite dispelThis quiet that they learned on lonely trips.
They have no part in all the noisy noons;They are become as dreams of ships that goBack to the secret waters that they know,Each as she will to unforgot lagoons,Where nothing moves except the ghostly sparsThat mark the patient watches on the stars.
Transcriber's noteThe following change was made to the text:Page 13: "weight they bare" changed to "weight theybear".
The following change was made to the text:
Page 13: "weight they bare" changed to "weight theybear".