The Project Gutenberg eBook ofShips in Harbour

The Project Gutenberg eBook ofShips in HarbourThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: Ships in HarbourAuthor: David MortonRelease date: February 9, 2009 [eBook #28043]Language: EnglishCredits: E-text prepared by David Garcia, Carla Foust, and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net) from page images generously made available by Kentuckiana Digital Library (http://kdl.kyvl.org/)*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SHIPS IN HARBOUR ***

This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.

Title: Ships in HarbourAuthor: David MortonRelease date: February 9, 2009 [eBook #28043]Language: EnglishCredits: E-text prepared by David Garcia, Carla Foust, and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net) from page images generously made available by Kentuckiana Digital Library (http://kdl.kyvl.org/)

Title: Ships in Harbour

Author: David Morton

Release date: February 9, 2009 [eBook #28043]

Language: English

Credits: E-text prepared by David Garcia, Carla Foust, and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net) from page images generously made available by Kentuckiana Digital Library (http://kdl.kyvl.org/)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SHIPS IN HARBOUR ***

Transcriber's noteMinor punctuation errors have been corrected without notice. One printer's error was changed, and it is indicated with amouse-hoverand listed at theend. All other inconsistencies are as in the original.

Minor punctuation errors have been corrected without notice. One printer's error was changed, and it is indicated with amouse-hoverand listed at theend. All other inconsistencies are as in the original.

DAVID MORTONG. P. PUTNAM'S SONSNEW YORK AND LONDONThe Knickerbocker Press1921

ToT. B. M.ANDM. W. M.This Book is Affectionately Dedicated

For the privilege of reprinting some of the poems included in this book, the author's thanks are due toThe Bookman,The Century,The New York Evening Post,Harper's Magazine,Poetry: A Magazine of Verse,The Designer,The Nation,The New York Sun,Collier's Weekly,Good Housekeeping,The Bellman,Contemporary Verse,Everybody's Magazine,The Smart Set,Ainslee's,The Sonnet,McCall's Magazine,The Touchstone Magazine,The Forum, andThe Lyric.

They are remembering forests where they grew,—The midnight quiet, and the giant dance;And all the murmuring summers that they knewAre haunting still their altered circumstance.Leaves they have lost, and robins in the nest,Tug of the goodly earth denied to ships,These, and the rooted certainties, and rest,—To gain a watery girdle at the hips.Only the wind that follows ever aft,They greet not as a stranger on their ways;But this old friend, with whom they drank and laughed,Sits in the stern and talks of other daysWhen they had held high bacchanalias still,Or dreamed among the stars on some tall hill.

Only the wind that follows ever aft,They greet not as a stranger on their ways;But this old friend, with whom they drank and laughed,Sits in the stern and talks of other daysWhen they had held high bacchanalias still,Or dreamed among the stars on some tall hill.

Loosed from her secret moorings,The thin and silver moon,Floats wide above these oceansOf yellow afternoon,—Who slipped her fragile cables,And blew to sea too soon.She bears no bales—but wonder,Not anything of note:How should she, being merelyA slender petal-boat?...But rated in the shipping:The dearest tramp afloat.

Loosed from her secret moorings,The thin and silver moon,Floats wide above these oceansOf yellow afternoon,—Who slipped her fragile cables,And blew to sea too soon.

She bears no bales—but wonder,Not anything of note:How should she, being merelyA slender petal-boat?...But rated in the shipping:The dearest tramp afloat.

The Roman wall was not more grave than this,That has no league at all with great affairs,That knows no ruder hands than clematis,No louder blasts than blowing April airs.Yet, with a grey solemnity it broods,Above the walk where simple folk go past,And in its crannies keeps their transient moods,Holding their careless words unto the last.The rains of summer, and the creeping vineThat season after season clings in trust,And shivered poppies red as Roman wine,—These things at last will haunt its crumbled dust—Not dreams of empires shattered where they lie,But children's laughter, birds, and bits of sky.

The rains of summer, and the creeping vineThat season after season clings in trust,And shivered poppies red as Roman wine,—These things at last will haunt its crumbled dust—Not dreams of empires shattered where they lie,But children's laughter, birds, and bits of sky.

They stirred uneasily, drew close their capes,And whispered each to each in awed surprise,Seeing this figure brood along the shapes,World tragedies thick-crowding through his eyes.On either side the ghostly groups drew backIn huddled knots, yielding him way and room,Their foolish mouths agape and fallen slack,Their bloodless fingers pointing through the gloom.Still lonely and magnificent in guilt,Splendid in scorn, rapt in a cloudy dream,He paused at last upon the Stygian silt,And raised calm eyes above the angry stream....Hand in his breast, he stood till Charon came,While Hades hummed with gossip of his name.

Still lonely and magnificent in guilt,Splendid in scorn, rapt in a cloudy dream,He paused at last upon the Stygian silt,And raised calm eyes above the angry stream....Hand in his breast, he stood till Charon came,While Hades hummed with gossip of his name.

Beautiful words, like butterflies, blow by,With what swift colours on their fragile wings!—Some that are less articulate than a sigh,Some that were names of ancient, lovely things.What delicate careerings of escape,When they would pass beyond the baffled reach,To leave a haunting shadow and a shape,—Eluding still the careful traps of speech.And I who watch and listen, lie in wait,Seeing the cloudy cavalcades blow past,—Happy if some bright vagrant, soon or late,May venture near the snares of sound, at last—Most fortunate captor if, from time to time,One may be taken, trembling, in a rhyme.

And I who watch and listen, lie in wait,Seeing the cloudy cavalcades blow past,—Happy if some bright vagrant, soon or late,May venture near the snares of sound, at last—Most fortunate captor if, from time to time,One may be taken, trembling, in a rhyme.

Sensing these sweet renewals through the earth,Where seed and soil most happily conspireTo furnish forth gay rituals of mirth,Of shaken leaves and pointed blooms of fire,—I wonder then that thoughtful man, alone,Walks darkly and all puzzled with a doubt,Bewildered, and in truth, half-fearful grownOf wild, wild earth and April's joyous rout.When we are dust again with soil and seed,With happy earth through many a happy Spring,We yet may learn that joy was all our need,—That man's long thought is but a broken wing,Of less account, as things may come to pass,Than Spring's first robin breasting through the grass.

When we are dust again with soil and seed,With happy earth through many a happy Spring,We yet may learn that joy was all our need,—That man's long thought is but a broken wing,Of less account, as things may come to pass,Than Spring's first robin breasting through the grass.

She brings such gay and shining things to pass,With delicate, deft fingers that are learnedIn ways of silverware and cup and glass,Arrayed in ordered patterns, trimly turned;—And never guesses how this subtle easeIs older than the oldest tale we tell,This gift that guides her through such tricks as these,——And my delight in watching her, as well.She thinks not how this art with spoon and plate,Is one with ancient women baking bread:An epic heritance come down of lateTo slender hands, and dear, delightful head,—How Trojan housewives vie in serving me,Where Mary sets the table things for tea.

She thinks not how this art with spoon and plate,Is one with ancient women baking bread:An epic heritance come down of lateTo slender hands, and dear, delightful head,—How Trojan housewives vie in serving me,Where Mary sets the table things for tea.

The late light falls across the floor,Turned amber from a yellow tree,—And there are yellow cups for four,And lemon for the tea.The maples, with a million flames,Have lit the golden afternoon,An ambient radiance that shamesThe ineffective moon....Till dull and smoky greys return,Quenching the street with chills and damps—Leaving these asters where they burn,Mellow like evening lamps.

The late light falls across the floor,Turned amber from a yellow tree,—And there are yellow cups for four,And lemon for the tea.

The maples, with a million flames,Have lit the golden afternoon,An ambient radiance that shamesThe ineffective moon....

Till dull and smoky greys return,Quenching the street with chills and damps—Leaving these asters where they burn,Mellow like evening lamps.

Unto these fields of torn and rutted earth,These hills that lift their many a naked scar,There yet shall come the indomitable mirthOf Springs that have remembered where they are.The slow processions of sweet sun and rainWill crown the changing seasons as they pass,With healing and green fruit and swollen grain,And banners of the gay and dauntless grass.Here little paths will find their way again,And here the patient cattle come to stand,Until, grown half-incredulous, these menLooking from doorways on the evening land,Can scarcely think—so deep the quiet lies—How all of this was ever otherwise.

Here little paths will find their way again,And here the patient cattle come to stand,Until, grown half-incredulous, these menLooking from doorways on the evening land,Can scarcely think—so deep the quiet lies—How all of this was ever otherwise.

With all our going through this golden weather,Where leaves have littered every forest way,If there be lovers, they should be together:For this is golden ... but the end is grey.Beyond this shimmer where the bright leaves fall,Behind this haze of silver shot with gold,There is a greyness waiting for it all,—A little longer ... and the world is old.And never loneliness grew more and more,As this that haunts these late October days,With smoky twilights gathering at the door,With grey mist clouding on familiar ways ...And well for him who has another near,When fires are lighted for the dying year.

And never loneliness grew more and more,As this that haunts these late October days,With smoky twilights gathering at the door,With grey mist clouding on familiar ways ...And well for him who has another near,When fires are lighted for the dying year.

After wet twilights, when the rain is done,I think they walk these ways that knew their feet,And tread these sunken pavements, one by one,Keen for old Summers that were wild and sweet;Where rainy lilacs blow against the dark,And grasses bend beneath the weight theybear,The night grows troubled, and we still may markTheir ghostly heart-break on the tender air.Be still! We cannot know what trysts they keep,What eager hands reach vainly for a door,Remembered since they folded them in sleep,—Frail hands that lift like lilacs, evermore,And lean along the darkness, pale and still,To touch a window or a crumbling sill.

Be still! We cannot know what trysts they keep,What eager hands reach vainly for a door,Remembered since they folded them in sleep,—Frail hands that lift like lilacs, evermore,And lean along the darkness, pale and still,To touch a window or a crumbling sill.

All loved and lovely women, dear to rhyme:Thaïs, Cassandra, Helen and their fames,Burn like tall candles through forgotten time,Lighting the Past's dim arras with their names.Around their faces wars the eager dark,Wherein all other lights are sunken now;Yet, casting back, the seeker still may markA flame of hair, a bright, immortal brow.Surely, where they have passed, one after one,Wearing their radiance to the darkened room,——Surely, new-comers to OblivionMay still descry, in that all-quenching gloom,Rare faces, lovely, lifted and alight,Like tapers burning through the windy night.

Surely, where they have passed, one after one,Wearing their radiance to the darkened room,——Surely, new-comers to OblivionMay still descry, in that all-quenching gloom,Rare faces, lovely, lifted and alight,Like tapers burning through the windy night.

God of Summer—I have seenWorld on world of summer green—Summer earth and summer sky,Fields of summer turning by;Hills beyond us fall away,Tumbled slopes in disarray,Fold and melt into a plain:Fire and gold of summer grain.Orchards curving on a hill,Heavy-fruited, green and still,Heave a shoulder to the sky,Bend and bow and hurry by;Fields of clover burn and pass,Cattle knee-deep in the grassLift a lazy head and lookPictures in a picture-book....Corn in swift, revolving rows,Dripping sunlight where it goes,Wheels and glitters and returns:Bladed beauty's lifted urns;Woods all shadowed, cooling earth,Murmuring of a quiet mirth,Pour damp odours where they pass,Breath of fern and earth and grass ...Ramblers on a lichened wall,Ramblers, ramblers pouring allColour that the world has knownOut upon an aging stone.—Little towns of street and spire,Dooryard roses, heart's desire,Light a dream within the mind,Light a dream ... and fall behind.God of mercies—when I slept,World on world of summer keptTurning, turning softly by,—Summer earth and summer sky:Fields of summer that will beSummer always unto me—Never lost, not left behind:Always summer for my mind.

Orchards curving on a hill,Heavy-fruited, green and still,Heave a shoulder to the sky,Bend and bow and hurry by;Fields of clover burn and pass,Cattle knee-deep in the grassLift a lazy head and lookPictures in a picture-book....Corn in swift, revolving rows,Dripping sunlight where it goes,Wheels and glitters and returns:Bladed beauty's lifted urns;Woods all shadowed, cooling earth,Murmuring of a quiet mirth,Pour damp odours where they pass,Breath of fern and earth and grass ...Ramblers on a lichened wall,Ramblers, ramblers pouring allColour that the world has knownOut upon an aging stone.—Little towns of street and spire,Dooryard roses, heart's desire,Light a dream within the mind,Light a dream ... and fall behind.

God of mercies—when I slept,World on world of summer keptTurning, turning softly by,—Summer earth and summer sky:Fields of summer that will beSummer always unto me—Never lost, not left behind:Always summer for my mind.

From what lost centuries that were sweet before,Comes this long wave of Summer, bursting whiteIn shivered apple-blossoms on the shoreThat is our homeland for a day and night!A wide, hushed spirit floats above the foam,A sweetness that was ancient flower and face,When wine-red poppies stained the walls of Rome,And daisies starred those summer fields of Thrace.Something survives and haunts the leafy shade,Some fragrance that was petals, once, and lips,And whispered, brief avowals that they made,—Borne hither, now, in vague, invisible ships,Whose weightless cargoes, poured upon the air,Are flowers forgot, and faces that were fair.

Something survives and haunts the leafy shade,Some fragrance that was petals, once, and lips,And whispered, brief avowals that they made,—Borne hither, now, in vague, invisible ships,Whose weightless cargoes, poured upon the air,Are flowers forgot, and faces that were fair.

There is a memory stays upon old ships,A weightless cargo in the musty hold,—Of bright lagoons and prow-caressing lips,Of stormy midnights,—and a tale untold.They have remembered islands in the dawn,And windy capes that tried their slender spars,The tortuous channels where their keels have gone,And calm, blue nights of stillness and the stars.Ah, never think that ships forget a shore,Or bitter seas, or winds that made them wise;There is a dream upon them, evermore;—And there be some who say that sunk ships riseTo seek familiar harbours in the night,Blowing in mists, their spectral sails like light.

Ah, never think that ships forget a shore,Or bitter seas, or winds that made them wise;There is a dream upon them, evermore;—And there be some who say that sunk ships riseTo seek familiar harbours in the night,Blowing in mists, their spectral sails like light.

Men loved not Athens in her maiden daysMore tenderly than these their tree-lined TownWhich, lacking Muses for a wider praise,Lives in their hearts in still and sweet renown.The market square, the wagons in the dawn,The streets like music when their names are said,The Sunday spire, the green, untrammelled lawn,—These be the things on which their hearts are fed.And one long street climbs slowly to a hillThat lifts her crosses for the Town to seeHow sleep those quiet neighbours, townsmen still,How there is peace for such as weary be ...And as they come, each like a sleepy guest,She takes them, one by one, and gives them rest.

And one long street climbs slowly to a hillThat lifts her crosses for the Town to seeHow sleep those quiet neighbours, townsmen still,How there is peace for such as weary be ...And as they come, each like a sleepy guest,She takes them, one by one, and gives them rest.

A thoughtful quiet lies upon the street,There is a hushed suspension on the air,And the slow bells summon unhurried feetTo dim reclosures kept for praise and prayer.Drawn blinds have shut the merchant's wares away,Where two by two the goodly folk go by,Out of their toilsome days into this dayOf special airs beneath a special sky.A little while, and all at last are gone;The streets are stilled of passers up and down;Only the pealing bells toll on and on,—Till these, too, cease, and all the silent TownIn street, and roof, and spire, and grassy sod,Lies steeped in sunlight, smiling back at God.

A little while, and all at last are gone;The streets are stilled of passers up and down;Only the pealing bells toll on and on,—Till these, too, cease, and all the silent TownIn street, and roof, and spire, and grassy sod,Lies steeped in sunlight, smiling back at God.

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