So that he saw it high above him, grey,And there his mate was falling; quick he clutchedAn arm in oilskins swiftly snatched away.A voice said "Christ!" a quick shape stooped and touched,Chain struck his hands, ropes shot, the sky was smutchedWith vast black fires that ran, that fell, that furled,And then he saw the mast, the small snow hurled,The fore-topgallant yard far, far aloft,And blankness settling on him and great pain;And snow beneath his fingers wet and soft,And topsail sheet-blocks shaking at the chain.He knew it was he who had fallen; then his brainSwirled in a circle while he watched the sky.Infinite multitudes of snow blew by."I thought it was Tom who fell," his brain's voice said."Down on the bloody deck!" the Captain screamed.The multitudinous little snow-flakes sped.His pain was real enough, but all else seemed.Si with a bucket ran, the water gleamedTilting upon him; others came, the Mate ...They knelt with eager eyes like things that waitFor other things to come. He saw them there."It will go on," he murmured, watching Si.Colours and sounds seemed mixing in the air,The pain was stunning him, and the wind went by."More water," said the Mate. "Here, Bosun, try.Ask if he's got a message. Hell, he's gone!Here, Dauber, paints." He said, "It will go on."Not knowing his meaning rightly, but he spokeWith the intenseness of a fading soulWhose share of Nature's fire turns to smoke,Whose hand on Nature's wheel loses control.The eager faces glowered red like coal.They glowed, the great storm glowed, the sails, the mast."It will go on," he cried aloud, and passed.Those from the yard came down to tell the tale."He almost had me off," said Tom. "He slipped.There come one hell of a jump-like from the sail....He clutched at me and almost had me pipped.He caught my 'ris'band, but the oilskin ripped....It tore clean off. Look here. I was near gone.I made a grab to catch him; so did John."I caught his arm. My God! I was near done.He almost had me over; it was near.He hit the ropes and grabbed at every one.""Well," said the Mate, "we cannot leave him here.Run, Si, and get the half-deck table clear.We'll lay him there. Catch hold there, you, and you,He's dead, poor son; there's nothing more to do."Night fell, and all night long the Dauber layCovered upon the table; all night longThe pitiless storm exulted at her prey,Huddling the waters with her icy thong.But to the covered shape she did no wrong.He lay beneath the sailcloth. Bell by bellThe night wore through; the stars rose, the stars fell.Blowing most pitiless cold out of clear skyThe wind roared all night long; and all night throughThe green seas on the deck went washing by,Flooding the half-deck; bitter hard it blew.But little of it all the Dauber knew--The sopping bunks, the floating chests, the wet,The darkness, and the misery, and the sweat.He was off duty. So it blew all night,And when the watches changed the men would comeDripping within the door to strike a lightAnd stare upon the Dauber lying dumb,And say, "He come a cruel thump, poor chum."Or, "He'd a-been a fine big man;" or, "He ...A smart young seaman he was getting to be."Or, "Damn it all, it's what we've all to face! ...I knew another fellow one time ..." thenCame a strange tale of death in a strange placeOut on the sea, in ships, with wandering men.In many ways Death puts us into pen.The reefers came down tired and looked and slept.Below the skylight little dribbles creptAlong the painted woodwork, glistening, slow,Following the roll and dripping, never fast,But dripping on the quiet form below,Like passing time talking to time long past.And all night long "Ai, ai!" went the wind's blast,And creaming water swished below the pale,Unheeding body stretched beneath the sail.At dawn they sewed him up, and at eight bellsThey bore him to the gangway, wading deep,Through the green-clutching, white-toothed water-hellsThat flung his carriers over in their sweep.They laid an old red ensign on the heap,And all hands stood bare-headed, stooping, swaying,Washed by the sea while the old man was prayingOut of a borrowed prayer-book. At a signThey twitched the ensign back and tipped the gratingA creamier bubbling broke the bubbling brine.The muffled figure tilted to the weighting;It dwindled slowly down, slowly gyrating.Some craned to see; it dimmed, it disappeared;The last green milky bubble blinked and cleared."Mister, shake out your reefs," the Captain called."Out topsail reefs!" the Mate cried; then all handsHurried, the great sails shook, and all hands hauled,Singing that desolate song of lonely lands,Of how a lover came in dripping bands,Green with the wet and cold, to tell his loverThat Death was in the sea, and all was over.Fair came the falling wind; a seaman saidThe Dauber was a Jonah; once againThe clipper held her course, showing red lead,Shattering the sea-tops into golden rain.The waves bowed down before her like blown grain;Onwards she thundered, on; her voyage was short,Before the tier's bells rang her into port.Cheerly they rang her in, those beating bells,The new-come beauty stately from the sea,Whitening the blue heave of the drowsy swells,Treading the bubbles down. With three times threeThey cheered her moving beauty in, and sheCame to her berth so noble, so superb;Swayed like a queen, and answered to the curb.Then in the sunset's flush they went aloft,And unbent sails in that most lovely hour,When the light gentles and the wind is soft,And beauty in the heart breaks like a flower.Working aloft they saw the mountain tower,Snow to the peak; they heard the launch-men shout;And bright along the bay the lights came out.And then the night fell dark, and all night longThe pointed mountain pointed at the stars,Frozen, alert, austere; the eagle's songScreamed from her desolate screes and splintered scars.On her intense crags where the air is sparseThe stars looked down; their many golden eyesWatched her and burned, burned out, and came to rise.Silent the finger of the summit stood,Icy in pure, thin air, glittering with snows.Then the sun's coming turned the peak to blood,And in the rest-house the muleteers arose.And all day long, where only the eagle goes,Stones, loosened by the sun, fall; the stones fallingFill empty gorge on gorge with echoes calling.EXPLANATIONS OF SOME OF THE SEATERMS USED IN THE POEMBackstays. Wire ropes which support the masts against lateral and after strains.Barney's bull. A figure in marine proverb. A jewel in marine repartee.Bells. Two bells (one forward, one aft) which are struck every half-hour in a certain manner to mark the passage of the watches.Bitts. Strong wooden structures (built round each mast) upon which running rigging is secured.Block. A sheaved pulley.Boatswain. A supernumerary or idler, generally attached to the mate's watch, and holding considerable authority over the crew.Bouilli tin. Any tin that contains, or has contained, preserved meat.Bows. The forward extremity of a ship.Brace-blocks. Pulleys through which the braces travel.Braces. Ropes by which the yards are inclined forward or aft.Bumboat pan. Soft bread sold by the bumboat man, a kind of sea costermonger who trades with ships in port.Bunt. Those cloths of a square sail which are nearest to the mast when the sail is set. The central portion of a furled square sail. The human abdomen (figuratively).Buntlines. Ropes which help to confine square sails to the yards in the operation of furling.Chocks. Wooden stands on which the boats rest.Cleats. Iron or wooden contrivances to which ropes may be secured.Clew-lines. Ropes by which the lower corners of square sails are lifted.Clews. The lower corners of square sails.Clipper. A title of honour given to ships of more than usual speed and beauty.Coaming. The raised rim of a hatchway; a barrier at a doorway to keep water from entering.Courses. The large square sails set upon the lower yards of sailing ships. The mizen course is called the "crojick."Cringled. Fitted with iron rings or cringles, many of which are let into sails or sail-roping for various purposes.Crojick (or cross-jack). A square sail set upon the lower yard of the mizen mast.Dungarees. Thin blue or khaki-coloured overalls made from cocoanut fibre.Fairleads. Rings of wood or iron by means of which running rigging is led in any direction.Fife-rails. Strong wooden shelves fitted with iron pins, to which ropes may be secured.Fish-hooks.I.e., fingers.Foot-ropes. Ropes on which men stand when working aloft.Fo'c'sle. The cabin or cabins in which the men are berthed. It is usually an iron deck-house divided through the middle into two compartments for the two watches, and fitted with wooden bunks. Sometimes it is even fitted with lockers and an iron water-tank.Foxes. Strands, yarns, or arrangements of yarns of rope.Freeing-ports. Iron doors in the ship's side which open outwards to free the decks of water.Frap. To wrap round with rope.Futtock-shrouds. Iron bars to which the topmast rigging is secured. As they project outward and upward from the masts they are difficult to clamber over.Galley. The ship's kitchen.Gantline (girtline). A rope used for the sending of sails up and down from aloft.Gaskets. Ropes by which the sails are secured in furling.Half-deck. A cabin or apartment in which the apprentices are berthed. Its situation is usually the ship's waist; but it is sometimes further aft, and occasionally it is under the poop or even right forward under the top-gallant fo'c'sle.Halliards. Ropes by which sails are hoisted.Harness-room. An office or room from which the salt meat is issued, and in which it is sometimes stored.Hawse. The bows or forward end of a ship.Head. The forward part of a ship. That upper edge of a square sail which is attached to the yard.House-flag. The special flag of the firm to which a ship belongs.Idlers. The members of the round-house mess, generally consisting of the carpenter, cook, sailmaker, boatswain, painter, etc., are known as the idlers.Jack (or jackstay). An iron bar (fitted along all yards in sailing ships) to which the head of a square sail is secured when bent.Kites. Light upper sails.Leeches. The outer edges of square sails. In furling some square sails the leech is dragged inwards till it lies level with the head upon the surface of the yard. This is done by the first man who gets upon the yard, beginning at the weather side.Logship. A contrivance by which a ship's speed is measured.Lower topsail. The second sail from the deck on square rigged masts. It is a very strong, important sail.Marline. Tarry line or coarse string made of rope-yarns twisted together.Mate. The First or Chief Mate is generally called the Mate.Mizen-topmast-head. The summit of the second of the three or four spars which make the complete mizen-mast.Mudhooks. Anchors.Pins. Iron or wooden bars to which running rigging is secured.Pointing. A kind of neat plait with which ropes are sometimes ended off or decorated.Poop-break. The forward end of the after superstructure.Ratlines. The rope steps placed across the shrouds to enable the seamen to go aloft.Reefers. Apprentices.Reef-points. Ropes by which the area of some sails may be reduced in the operation of reefing. Reef-points are securely fixed to the sails fitted with them, and when not in use their ends patter continually upon the canvas with a gentle drumming noise.Reel. A part of the machinery used with a logship.Round-house. A cabin (of all shapes except round) in which the idlers are berthed.Royals. Light upper square sails; the fourth, fifth, or sixth sails from the deck according to the mast's rig.Sail-room. A large room or compartment in which the ship's sails are stored."Sails." The sailmaker is meant.Scuttle-butt. A cask containing fresh water.Shackles. Rope handles for a sea-chest.Sheet-blocks. Iron blocks, by means of which sails are sheeted home. In any violent wind they beat upon the mast with great rapidity and force.Sheets. Ropes or chains which extend the lower corners of square sails in the operation of sheeting home.Shifting suits (of sails). The operation of removing a ship's sails, and replacing them with others.Shrouds. Wire ropes of great strength, which support lateral strains on masts.Shroud-screws. Iron contrivances by which shrouds are hove taut.Sidelights. A sailing ship carries two of these between sunset and sunrise: one green, to starboard; one red, to port.Sights. Observations to help in the finding of a ship's position.Skid. A wooden contrivance on which ship's boats rest.Skysails. The uppermost square sails; the fifth, sixth, or seventh sails from the deck according to the mast's rig.Slatting. The noise made by sails flogging in the wind.Slush. Grease, melted fat.South-wester. A kind of oilskin hat. A gale from the south-west.Spit brown. To chew tobacco.Square sennit. A cunning plait which makes a four-square bar.Staysails. Fore and aft sails set upon the stays between the masts.Stow. To furl.Strop (the, putting on). A strop is a grument or rope ring. The two players kneel down facing each other, the strop is placed over their heads, and the men then try to pull each other over by the strength of their neck-muscles.Swing ports. Iron doors in the ship's side which open outwards to free the decks from water.Tackle (pronounced "taykel"). Blocks, ropes, pulleys, etc.Take a caulk. To sleep upon the deck.Topsails. The second and third sails from the deck on the masts of a modern square-rigged ship are known as the lower and upper topsails.Trucks. The summits of the masts.Upper topsail. The third square sail from the deck on the masts of square-rigged ships.Yards. The steel or wooden spars (placed across masts) from which square sails are set.BIOGRAPHYWhen I am buried, all my thoughts and actsWill be reduced to lists of dates and facts,And long before this wandering flesh is rottenThe dates which made me will be all forgotten;And none will know the gleam there used to beAbout the feast days freshly kept by me,But men will call the golden hour of bliss"About this time," or "shortly after this."Men do not heed the rungs by which men climbThose glittering steps, those milestones upon Time,Those tombstones of dead selves, those hours of birth,Those moments of the soul in years of earthThey mark the height achieved, the main result,The power of freedom in the perished cult,The power of boredom in the dead man's deeds,Not the bright moments of the sprinkled seeds.By many waters and on many waysI have known golden instants and bright days;The day on which, beneath an arching sail,I saw the Cordilleras and gave hail;The summer day on which in heart's delightI saw the Swansea Mumbles bursting white,The glittering day when all the waves wore flagsAnd the shipWanderercame with sails in rags;That curlew-calling time in Irish duskWhen life became more splendid than its husk,When the rent chapel on the brae at SlainsShone with a doorway opening beyond brains;The dawn when, with a brace-block's creaking cry,Out of the mist a little barque slipped by,Spilling the mist with changing gleams of red,Then gone, with one raised hand and one turned head;The howling evening when the spindrift's mistsBroke to display the four Evangelists,Snow-capped, divinely granite, lashed by breakers,Wind-beaten bones of long since buried acres;The night alone near water when I heardAll the sea's spirit spoken by a bird;The English dusk when I beheld once more(With eyes so changed) the ship, the citied shore,The lines of masts, the streets so cheerly trod(In happier seasons) and gave thanks to God.All had their beauty, then bright moments' gift,Their something caught from Time, the ever-swift.All of those gleams were golden; but life's handsHave given more constant gifts in changing lands,And when I count those gifts, I think them suchAs no man's bounty could have bettered much:The gift of country life, near hills and woodsWhere happy waters sing in solitudes,The gift of being near ships, of seeing each dayA city of ships with great ships under weigh,The great street paved with water, filled with shipping,And all the world's flags flying and seagulls dipping.Yet when I am dust my penman may not knowThose water-trampling ships which made me glow,But think my wonder mad and fail to findTheir glory, even dimly, from my mind,And yet they made me:not alone the shipsBut men hard-palmed from tallying-on to whips,The two close friends of nearly twenty years,Sea-followers both, sea-wrestlers and sea-peers,Whose feet with mine wore many a bolt-head brightTreading the decks beneath the riding light.Yet death will make that warmth of friendship coldAnd who'll know what one said and what one toldOur hearts' communion and the broken spellsWhen the loud call blew at the strike of bells?No one, I know, yet let me be believedA soul entirely known is life achieved.Years blank with hardship never speak a wordLive in the soul to make the being stirred,Towns can be prisons where the spirit dullsAway from mates and ocean-wandering hulls,Away from all bright water and great hillsAnd sheep-walks where the curlews cry their fills,Away in towns, where eyes have nought to seeBut dead museums and miles of miseryAnd floating life unrooted from man's needAnd miles of fish-hooks baited to catch greedAnd life made wretched out of human kenAnd miles of shopping women served by men.So, if the penman sums my London daysLet him but say that there were holy ways,Dull Bloomsbury streets of dull brick mansions oldWith stinking doors where women stood to scoldAnd drunken waits at Christmas with their hornDroning the news, in snow, that Christ was born;And windy gas lamps and the wet roads shiningAnd that old carol of the midnight whining,And that old room (above the noisy slum)Where there was wine and fire and talk with someUnder strange pictures of the wakened soulTo whom this earth was but a burnt-out coal.O Time, bring back those midnights and those friends,Those glittering moments that a spirit lendsThat all may be imagined from the flashThe cloud-hid god-game through the lightning gashThose hours of stricken sparks from which men tookLight to send out to men in song or book.Those friends who heard St. Pancras' bells strike twoYet stayed until the barber's cockerel crew.Talking of noble styles, the Frenchman's best,The thought beyond great poets not expressed,The glory of mood where human frailty failed,The forts of human light not yet assailed,Till the dim room had mind and seemed to broodBinding our wills to mental brotherhood,Till we became a college, and each nightWas discipline and manhood and delight,Till our farewells and winding down the stairsAt each grey dawn had meaning that Time spares,That we, so linked, should roam the whole world roundTeaching the ways our brooding minds had foundMaking that room our Chapter, our one mindWhere all that this world soiled should be refined.Often at night I tread those streets againAnd see the alley glimmering in the rain,Yet now I miss that sign of earlier trampsA house with shadows of plane-boughs under lamps,The secret house where once a beggar stoodTrembling and blind to show his woe for food.And now I miss that friend who used to walkHome to my lodgings with me, deep in talk,Wearing the last of night out in still streetsTrodden by us and policemen on their beatsAnd cats, but else deserted; now I missThat lively mind and guttural laugh of hisAnd that strange way he had of making gleam,Like something real, the art we used to dream.London has been my prison; but my booksHills and great waters, labouring men and brooks,Ships and deep friendships and remembered daysWhich even now set all my mind ablazeAs that June day when, in the red bricks' chinksI saw the old Roman ruins white with pinksAnd felt the hillside haunted even thenBy not dead memory of the Roman men.And felt the hillside thronged by souls unseenWho knew the interest in me and were keenThat man alive should understand man deadSo many centuries since the blood was shed.And quickened with strange hush because this comerSensed a strange soul alive behind the summer.That other day on Ercall when the stonesWere sunbleached white, like long unburied bones,While the bees droned and all the air was sweetFrom honey buried underneath my feet,Honey of purple heather and white cloverSealed in its gummy bags till summer's over.Then other days by water, by bright sea,Clear as clean glass and my bright friend with me,The cove clean bottomed where we saw the brownRed spotted plaice go skimming six feet downAnd saw the long fronds waving, white with shells,Waving, unfolding, drooping, to the swells;That sadder day when we beheld the greatAnd terrible beauty of a Lammas spateRoaring white-mouthed in all the great cliff's gapsHeadlong, tree-tumbling fury of collapse,While drenching clouds drove by and every senseWas water roaring or rushing or in offence,And mountain sheep stood huddled and blown gaps gleamedWhere torn white hair of torrents shook and streamed.That sadder day when we beheld againA spate going down in sunshine after rain,When the blue reach of water leaping brightWas one long ripple and clatter, flecked with white.And that far day, that never blotted pageWhen youth was bright like flowers about old ageFair generations bringing thanks for lifeTo that old kindly man and trembling wifeAfter their sixty years: Time never madeA better beauty since the Earth was laidThan that thanksgiving given to grey hairFor the great gift of life which brought them there.Days of endeavour have been good: the daysRacing in cutters for the comrade's praise,The day they led my cutter at the turnYet could not keep the lead and dropped astern,The moment in the spurt when both boats' oarsDipped in each other's wash and throats grew hoarseAnd teeth ground into teeth and both strokes quickenedLashing the sea, and gasps came, and hearts sickenedAnd coxswains damned us, dancing, banking stroke,To put our weights on, though our hearts were brokeAnd both boats seemed to stick and sea seemed glue,The tide a mill race we were struggling throughAnd every quick recover gave us squintsOf them still there, and oar tossed water-glintsAnd cheering came, our friends, our foemen cheering,A long, wild, rallying murmur on the hearing--"Port Fore!" and "Starboard Fore!""Port Fore." "Port Fore.""Up with her, Starboard," and at that each oarLightened, though arms were bursting, and eyes shutAnd the oak stretchers grunted in the strutAnd the curse quickened from the cox, our bowsCrashed, and drove talking water, we made vowsChastity vows and temperance; in our painWe numbered things we'd never eat againIf we could only win; then came the yell"Starboard," "Port Fore," and then a beaten bellRung as for fire to cheer us. "Now." Oars bentSoul took the looms now body's bolt was spent,"Damn it, come on now," "On now," "On now," "Starboard."
So that he saw it high above him, grey,And there his mate was falling; quick he clutchedAn arm in oilskins swiftly snatched away.A voice said "Christ!" a quick shape stooped and touched,Chain struck his hands, ropes shot, the sky was smutchedWith vast black fires that ran, that fell, that furled,And then he saw the mast, the small snow hurled,
So that he saw it high above him, grey,
And there his mate was falling; quick he clutched
An arm in oilskins swiftly snatched away.
A voice said "Christ!" a quick shape stooped and touched,
Chain struck his hands, ropes shot, the sky was smutched
With vast black fires that ran, that fell, that furled,
And then he saw the mast, the small snow hurled,
The fore-topgallant yard far, far aloft,And blankness settling on him and great pain;And snow beneath his fingers wet and soft,And topsail sheet-blocks shaking at the chain.He knew it was he who had fallen; then his brainSwirled in a circle while he watched the sky.Infinite multitudes of snow blew by.
The fore-topgallant yard far, far aloft,
And blankness settling on him and great pain;
And snow beneath his fingers wet and soft,
And topsail sheet-blocks shaking at the chain.
He knew it was he who had fallen; then his brain
Swirled in a circle while he watched the sky.
Infinite multitudes of snow blew by.
"I thought it was Tom who fell," his brain's voice said."Down on the bloody deck!" the Captain screamed.The multitudinous little snow-flakes sped.His pain was real enough, but all else seemed.Si with a bucket ran, the water gleamedTilting upon him; others came, the Mate ...They knelt with eager eyes like things that wait
"I thought it was Tom who fell," his brain's voice said.
"Down on the bloody deck!" the Captain screamed.
The multitudinous little snow-flakes sped.
His pain was real enough, but all else seemed.
Si with a bucket ran, the water gleamed
Tilting upon him; others came, the Mate ...
They knelt with eager eyes like things that wait
For other things to come. He saw them there."It will go on," he murmured, watching Si.Colours and sounds seemed mixing in the air,The pain was stunning him, and the wind went by."More water," said the Mate. "Here, Bosun, try.Ask if he's got a message. Hell, he's gone!Here, Dauber, paints." He said, "It will go on."
For other things to come. He saw them there.
"It will go on," he murmured, watching Si.
Colours and sounds seemed mixing in the air,
The pain was stunning him, and the wind went by.
"More water," said the Mate. "Here, Bosun, try.
Ask if he's got a message. Hell, he's gone!
Here, Dauber, paints." He said, "It will go on."
Not knowing his meaning rightly, but he spokeWith the intenseness of a fading soulWhose share of Nature's fire turns to smoke,Whose hand on Nature's wheel loses control.The eager faces glowered red like coal.They glowed, the great storm glowed, the sails, the mast."It will go on," he cried aloud, and passed.
Not knowing his meaning rightly, but he spoke
With the intenseness of a fading soul
Whose share of Nature's fire turns to smoke,
Whose hand on Nature's wheel loses control.
The eager faces glowered red like coal.
They glowed, the great storm glowed, the sails, the mast.
"It will go on," he cried aloud, and passed.
Those from the yard came down to tell the tale."He almost had me off," said Tom. "He slipped.There come one hell of a jump-like from the sail....He clutched at me and almost had me pipped.He caught my 'ris'band, but the oilskin ripped....It tore clean off. Look here. I was near gone.I made a grab to catch him; so did John.
Those from the yard came down to tell the tale.
"He almost had me off," said Tom. "He slipped.
There come one hell of a jump-like from the sail....
He clutched at me and almost had me pipped.
He caught my 'ris'band, but the oilskin ripped....
It tore clean off. Look here. I was near gone.
I made a grab to catch him; so did John.
"I caught his arm. My God! I was near done.He almost had me over; it was near.He hit the ropes and grabbed at every one.""Well," said the Mate, "we cannot leave him here.Run, Si, and get the half-deck table clear.We'll lay him there. Catch hold there, you, and you,He's dead, poor son; there's nothing more to do."
"I caught his arm. My God! I was near done.
He almost had me over; it was near.
He hit the ropes and grabbed at every one."
"Well," said the Mate, "we cannot leave him here.
Run, Si, and get the half-deck table clear.
We'll lay him there. Catch hold there, you, and you,
He's dead, poor son; there's nothing more to do."
Night fell, and all night long the Dauber layCovered upon the table; all night longThe pitiless storm exulted at her prey,Huddling the waters with her icy thong.But to the covered shape she did no wrong.He lay beneath the sailcloth. Bell by bellThe night wore through; the stars rose, the stars fell.
Night fell, and all night long the Dauber lay
Covered upon the table; all night long
The pitiless storm exulted at her prey,
Huddling the waters with her icy thong.
But to the covered shape she did no wrong.
He lay beneath the sailcloth. Bell by bell
The night wore through; the stars rose, the stars fell.
Blowing most pitiless cold out of clear skyThe wind roared all night long; and all night throughThe green seas on the deck went washing by,Flooding the half-deck; bitter hard it blew.But little of it all the Dauber knew--The sopping bunks, the floating chests, the wet,The darkness, and the misery, and the sweat.
Blowing most pitiless cold out of clear sky
The wind roared all night long; and all night through
The green seas on the deck went washing by,
Flooding the half-deck; bitter hard it blew.
But little of it all the Dauber knew--
The sopping bunks, the floating chests, the wet,
The darkness, and the misery, and the sweat.
He was off duty. So it blew all night,And when the watches changed the men would comeDripping within the door to strike a lightAnd stare upon the Dauber lying dumb,And say, "He come a cruel thump, poor chum."Or, "He'd a-been a fine big man;" or, "He ...A smart young seaman he was getting to be."
He was off duty. So it blew all night,
And when the watches changed the men would come
Dripping within the door to strike a light
And stare upon the Dauber lying dumb,
And say, "He come a cruel thump, poor chum."
Or, "He'd a-been a fine big man;" or, "He ...
A smart young seaman he was getting to be."
Or, "Damn it all, it's what we've all to face! ...I knew another fellow one time ..." thenCame a strange tale of death in a strange placeOut on the sea, in ships, with wandering men.In many ways Death puts us into pen.The reefers came down tired and looked and slept.Below the skylight little dribbles crept
Or, "Damn it all, it's what we've all to face! ...
I knew another fellow one time ..." then
Came a strange tale of death in a strange place
Out on the sea, in ships, with wandering men.
In many ways Death puts us into pen.
The reefers came down tired and looked and slept.
Below the skylight little dribbles crept
Along the painted woodwork, glistening, slow,Following the roll and dripping, never fast,But dripping on the quiet form below,Like passing time talking to time long past.And all night long "Ai, ai!" went the wind's blast,And creaming water swished below the pale,Unheeding body stretched beneath the sail.
Along the painted woodwork, glistening, slow,
Following the roll and dripping, never fast,
But dripping on the quiet form below,
Like passing time talking to time long past.
And all night long "Ai, ai!" went the wind's blast,
And creaming water swished below the pale,
Unheeding body stretched beneath the sail.
At dawn they sewed him up, and at eight bellsThey bore him to the gangway, wading deep,Through the green-clutching, white-toothed water-hellsThat flung his carriers over in their sweep.They laid an old red ensign on the heap,And all hands stood bare-headed, stooping, swaying,Washed by the sea while the old man was praying
At dawn they sewed him up, and at eight bells
They bore him to the gangway, wading deep,
Through the green-clutching, white-toothed water-hells
That flung his carriers over in their sweep.
They laid an old red ensign on the heap,
And all hands stood bare-headed, stooping, swaying,
Washed by the sea while the old man was praying
Out of a borrowed prayer-book. At a signThey twitched the ensign back and tipped the gratingA creamier bubbling broke the bubbling brine.The muffled figure tilted to the weighting;It dwindled slowly down, slowly gyrating.Some craned to see; it dimmed, it disappeared;The last green milky bubble blinked and cleared.
Out of a borrowed prayer-book. At a sign
They twitched the ensign back and tipped the grating
A creamier bubbling broke the bubbling brine.
The muffled figure tilted to the weighting;
It dwindled slowly down, slowly gyrating.
Some craned to see; it dimmed, it disappeared;
The last green milky bubble blinked and cleared.
"Mister, shake out your reefs," the Captain called."Out topsail reefs!" the Mate cried; then all handsHurried, the great sails shook, and all hands hauled,Singing that desolate song of lonely lands,Of how a lover came in dripping bands,Green with the wet and cold, to tell his loverThat Death was in the sea, and all was over.
"Mister, shake out your reefs," the Captain called.
"Out topsail reefs!" the Mate cried; then all hands
Hurried, the great sails shook, and all hands hauled,
Singing that desolate song of lonely lands,
Of how a lover came in dripping bands,
Green with the wet and cold, to tell his lover
That Death was in the sea, and all was over.
Fair came the falling wind; a seaman saidThe Dauber was a Jonah; once againThe clipper held her course, showing red lead,Shattering the sea-tops into golden rain.The waves bowed down before her like blown grain;Onwards she thundered, on; her voyage was short,Before the tier's bells rang her into port.
Fair came the falling wind; a seaman said
The Dauber was a Jonah; once again
The clipper held her course, showing red lead,
Shattering the sea-tops into golden rain.
The waves bowed down before her like blown grain;
Onwards she thundered, on; her voyage was short,
Before the tier's bells rang her into port.
Cheerly they rang her in, those beating bells,The new-come beauty stately from the sea,Whitening the blue heave of the drowsy swells,Treading the bubbles down. With three times threeThey cheered her moving beauty in, and sheCame to her berth so noble, so superb;Swayed like a queen, and answered to the curb.
Cheerly they rang her in, those beating bells,
The new-come beauty stately from the sea,
Whitening the blue heave of the drowsy swells,
Treading the bubbles down. With three times three
They cheered her moving beauty in, and she
Came to her berth so noble, so superb;
Swayed like a queen, and answered to the curb.
Then in the sunset's flush they went aloft,And unbent sails in that most lovely hour,When the light gentles and the wind is soft,And beauty in the heart breaks like a flower.Working aloft they saw the mountain tower,Snow to the peak; they heard the launch-men shout;And bright along the bay the lights came out.
Then in the sunset's flush they went aloft,
And unbent sails in that most lovely hour,
When the light gentles and the wind is soft,
And beauty in the heart breaks like a flower.
Working aloft they saw the mountain tower,
Snow to the peak; they heard the launch-men shout;
And bright along the bay the lights came out.
And then the night fell dark, and all night longThe pointed mountain pointed at the stars,Frozen, alert, austere; the eagle's songScreamed from her desolate screes and splintered scars.On her intense crags where the air is sparseThe stars looked down; their many golden eyesWatched her and burned, burned out, and came to rise.
And then the night fell dark, and all night long
The pointed mountain pointed at the stars,
Frozen, alert, austere; the eagle's song
Screamed from her desolate screes and splintered scars.
On her intense crags where the air is sparse
The stars looked down; their many golden eyes
Watched her and burned, burned out, and came to rise.
Silent the finger of the summit stood,Icy in pure, thin air, glittering with snows.Then the sun's coming turned the peak to blood,And in the rest-house the muleteers arose.And all day long, where only the eagle goes,Stones, loosened by the sun, fall; the stones fallingFill empty gorge on gorge with echoes calling.
Silent the finger of the summit stood,
Icy in pure, thin air, glittering with snows.
Then the sun's coming turned the peak to blood,
And in the rest-house the muleteers arose.
And all day long, where only the eagle goes,
Stones, loosened by the sun, fall; the stones falling
Fill empty gorge on gorge with echoes calling.
EXPLANATIONS OF SOME OF THE SEATERMS USED IN THE POEM
Backstays. Wire ropes which support the masts against lateral and after strains.
Barney's bull. A figure in marine proverb. A jewel in marine repartee.
Bells. Two bells (one forward, one aft) which are struck every half-hour in a certain manner to mark the passage of the watches.
Bitts. Strong wooden structures (built round each mast) upon which running rigging is secured.
Block. A sheaved pulley.
Boatswain. A supernumerary or idler, generally attached to the mate's watch, and holding considerable authority over the crew.
Bouilli tin. Any tin that contains, or has contained, preserved meat.
Bows. The forward extremity of a ship.
Brace-blocks. Pulleys through which the braces travel.
Braces. Ropes by which the yards are inclined forward or aft.
Bumboat pan. Soft bread sold by the bumboat man, a kind of sea costermonger who trades with ships in port.
Bunt. Those cloths of a square sail which are nearest to the mast when the sail is set. The central portion of a furled square sail. The human abdomen (figuratively).
Buntlines. Ropes which help to confine square sails to the yards in the operation of furling.
Chocks. Wooden stands on which the boats rest.
Cleats. Iron or wooden contrivances to which ropes may be secured.
Clew-lines. Ropes by which the lower corners of square sails are lifted.
Clews. The lower corners of square sails.
Clipper. A title of honour given to ships of more than usual speed and beauty.
Coaming. The raised rim of a hatchway; a barrier at a doorway to keep water from entering.
Courses. The large square sails set upon the lower yards of sailing ships. The mizen course is called the "crojick."
Cringled. Fitted with iron rings or cringles, many of which are let into sails or sail-roping for various purposes.
Crojick (or cross-jack). A square sail set upon the lower yard of the mizen mast.
Dungarees. Thin blue or khaki-coloured overalls made from cocoanut fibre.
Fairleads. Rings of wood or iron by means of which running rigging is led in any direction.
Fife-rails. Strong wooden shelves fitted with iron pins, to which ropes may be secured.
Fish-hooks.I.e., fingers.
Foot-ropes. Ropes on which men stand when working aloft.
Fo'c'sle. The cabin or cabins in which the men are berthed. It is usually an iron deck-house divided through the middle into two compartments for the two watches, and fitted with wooden bunks. Sometimes it is even fitted with lockers and an iron water-tank.
Foxes. Strands, yarns, or arrangements of yarns of rope.
Freeing-ports. Iron doors in the ship's side which open outwards to free the decks of water.
Frap. To wrap round with rope.
Futtock-shrouds. Iron bars to which the topmast rigging is secured. As they project outward and upward from the masts they are difficult to clamber over.
Galley. The ship's kitchen.
Gantline (girtline). A rope used for the sending of sails up and down from aloft.
Gaskets. Ropes by which the sails are secured in furling.
Half-deck. A cabin or apartment in which the apprentices are berthed. Its situation is usually the ship's waist; but it is sometimes further aft, and occasionally it is under the poop or even right forward under the top-gallant fo'c'sle.
Halliards. Ropes by which sails are hoisted.
Harness-room. An office or room from which the salt meat is issued, and in which it is sometimes stored.
Hawse. The bows or forward end of a ship.
Head. The forward part of a ship. That upper edge of a square sail which is attached to the yard.
House-flag. The special flag of the firm to which a ship belongs.
Idlers. The members of the round-house mess, generally consisting of the carpenter, cook, sailmaker, boatswain, painter, etc., are known as the idlers.
Jack (or jackstay). An iron bar (fitted along all yards in sailing ships) to which the head of a square sail is secured when bent.
Kites. Light upper sails.
Leeches. The outer edges of square sails. In furling some square sails the leech is dragged inwards till it lies level with the head upon the surface of the yard. This is done by the first man who gets upon the yard, beginning at the weather side.
Logship. A contrivance by which a ship's speed is measured.
Lower topsail. The second sail from the deck on square rigged masts. It is a very strong, important sail.
Marline. Tarry line or coarse string made of rope-yarns twisted together.
Mate. The First or Chief Mate is generally called the Mate.
Mizen-topmast-head. The summit of the second of the three or four spars which make the complete mizen-mast.
Mudhooks. Anchors.
Pins. Iron or wooden bars to which running rigging is secured.
Pointing. A kind of neat plait with which ropes are sometimes ended off or decorated.
Poop-break. The forward end of the after superstructure.
Ratlines. The rope steps placed across the shrouds to enable the seamen to go aloft.
Reefers. Apprentices.
Reef-points. Ropes by which the area of some sails may be reduced in the operation of reefing. Reef-points are securely fixed to the sails fitted with them, and when not in use their ends patter continually upon the canvas with a gentle drumming noise.
Reel. A part of the machinery used with a logship.
Round-house. A cabin (of all shapes except round) in which the idlers are berthed.
Royals. Light upper square sails; the fourth, fifth, or sixth sails from the deck according to the mast's rig.
Sail-room. A large room or compartment in which the ship's sails are stored.
"Sails." The sailmaker is meant.
Scuttle-butt. A cask containing fresh water.
Shackles. Rope handles for a sea-chest.
Sheet-blocks. Iron blocks, by means of which sails are sheeted home. In any violent wind they beat upon the mast with great rapidity and force.
Sheets. Ropes or chains which extend the lower corners of square sails in the operation of sheeting home.
Shifting suits (of sails). The operation of removing a ship's sails, and replacing them with others.
Shrouds. Wire ropes of great strength, which support lateral strains on masts.
Shroud-screws. Iron contrivances by which shrouds are hove taut.
Sidelights. A sailing ship carries two of these between sunset and sunrise: one green, to starboard; one red, to port.
Sights. Observations to help in the finding of a ship's position.
Skid. A wooden contrivance on which ship's boats rest.
Skysails. The uppermost square sails; the fifth, sixth, or seventh sails from the deck according to the mast's rig.
Slatting. The noise made by sails flogging in the wind.
Slush. Grease, melted fat.
South-wester. A kind of oilskin hat. A gale from the south-west.
Spit brown. To chew tobacco.
Square sennit. A cunning plait which makes a four-square bar.
Staysails. Fore and aft sails set upon the stays between the masts.
Stow. To furl.
Strop (the, putting on). A strop is a grument or rope ring. The two players kneel down facing each other, the strop is placed over their heads, and the men then try to pull each other over by the strength of their neck-muscles.
Swing ports. Iron doors in the ship's side which open outwards to free the decks from water.
Tackle (pronounced "taykel"). Blocks, ropes, pulleys, etc.
Take a caulk. To sleep upon the deck.
Topsails. The second and third sails from the deck on the masts of a modern square-rigged ship are known as the lower and upper topsails.
Trucks. The summits of the masts.
Upper topsail. The third square sail from the deck on the masts of square-rigged ships.
Yards. The steel or wooden spars (placed across masts) from which square sails are set.
BIOGRAPHY
When I am buried, all my thoughts and actsWill be reduced to lists of dates and facts,And long before this wandering flesh is rottenThe dates which made me will be all forgotten;And none will know the gleam there used to beAbout the feast days freshly kept by me,But men will call the golden hour of bliss"About this time," or "shortly after this."
When I am buried, all my thoughts and acts
Will be reduced to lists of dates and facts,
And long before this wandering flesh is rotten
The dates which made me will be all forgotten;
And none will know the gleam there used to be
About the feast days freshly kept by me,
But men will call the golden hour of bliss
"About this time," or "shortly after this."
Men do not heed the rungs by which men climbThose glittering steps, those milestones upon Time,Those tombstones of dead selves, those hours of birth,Those moments of the soul in years of earthThey mark the height achieved, the main result,The power of freedom in the perished cult,The power of boredom in the dead man's deeds,Not the bright moments of the sprinkled seeds.
Men do not heed the rungs by which men climb
Those glittering steps, those milestones upon Time,
Those tombstones of dead selves, those hours of birth,
Those moments of the soul in years of earth
They mark the height achieved, the main result,
The power of freedom in the perished cult,
The power of boredom in the dead man's deeds,
Not the bright moments of the sprinkled seeds.
By many waters and on many waysI have known golden instants and bright days;The day on which, beneath an arching sail,I saw the Cordilleras and gave hail;The summer day on which in heart's delightI saw the Swansea Mumbles bursting white,The glittering day when all the waves wore flagsAnd the shipWanderercame with sails in rags;That curlew-calling time in Irish duskWhen life became more splendid than its husk,When the rent chapel on the brae at SlainsShone with a doorway opening beyond brains;The dawn when, with a brace-block's creaking cry,Out of the mist a little barque slipped by,Spilling the mist with changing gleams of red,Then gone, with one raised hand and one turned head;The howling evening when the spindrift's mistsBroke to display the four Evangelists,Snow-capped, divinely granite, lashed by breakers,Wind-beaten bones of long since buried acres;The night alone near water when I heardAll the sea's spirit spoken by a bird;The English dusk when I beheld once more(With eyes so changed) the ship, the citied shore,The lines of masts, the streets so cheerly trod(In happier seasons) and gave thanks to God.All had their beauty, then bright moments' gift,Their something caught from Time, the ever-swift.
By many waters and on many ways
I have known golden instants and bright days;
The day on which, beneath an arching sail,
I saw the Cordilleras and gave hail;
The summer day on which in heart's delight
I saw the Swansea Mumbles bursting white,
The glittering day when all the waves wore flags
And the shipWanderercame with sails in rags;
That curlew-calling time in Irish dusk
When life became more splendid than its husk,
When the rent chapel on the brae at Slains
Shone with a doorway opening beyond brains;
The dawn when, with a brace-block's creaking cry,
Out of the mist a little barque slipped by,
Spilling the mist with changing gleams of red,
Then gone, with one raised hand and one turned head;
The howling evening when the spindrift's mists
Broke to display the four Evangelists,
Snow-capped, divinely granite, lashed by breakers,
Wind-beaten bones of long since buried acres;
The night alone near water when I heard
All the sea's spirit spoken by a bird;
The English dusk when I beheld once more
(With eyes so changed) the ship, the citied shore,
The lines of masts, the streets so cheerly trod
(In happier seasons) and gave thanks to God.
All had their beauty, then bright moments' gift,
Their something caught from Time, the ever-swift.
All of those gleams were golden; but life's handsHave given more constant gifts in changing lands,And when I count those gifts, I think them suchAs no man's bounty could have bettered much:The gift of country life, near hills and woodsWhere happy waters sing in solitudes,The gift of being near ships, of seeing each dayA city of ships with great ships under weigh,The great street paved with water, filled with shipping,And all the world's flags flying and seagulls dipping.
All of those gleams were golden; but life's hands
Have given more constant gifts in changing lands,
And when I count those gifts, I think them such
As no man's bounty could have bettered much:
The gift of country life, near hills and woods
Where happy waters sing in solitudes,
The gift of being near ships, of seeing each day
A city of ships with great ships under weigh,
The great street paved with water, filled with shipping,
And all the world's flags flying and seagulls dipping.
Yet when I am dust my penman may not knowThose water-trampling ships which made me glow,But think my wonder mad and fail to findTheir glory, even dimly, from my mind,And yet they made me:not alone the shipsBut men hard-palmed from tallying-on to whips,The two close friends of nearly twenty years,Sea-followers both, sea-wrestlers and sea-peers,Whose feet with mine wore many a bolt-head brightTreading the decks beneath the riding light.Yet death will make that warmth of friendship coldAnd who'll know what one said and what one toldOur hearts' communion and the broken spellsWhen the loud call blew at the strike of bells?No one, I know, yet let me be believedA soul entirely known is life achieved.
Yet when I am dust my penman may not know
Those water-trampling ships which made me glow,
But think my wonder mad and fail to find
Their glory, even dimly, from my mind,
And yet they made me:
not alone the ships
not alone the ships
But men hard-palmed from tallying-on to whips,
The two close friends of nearly twenty years,
Sea-followers both, sea-wrestlers and sea-peers,
Whose feet with mine wore many a bolt-head bright
Treading the decks beneath the riding light.
Yet death will make that warmth of friendship cold
And who'll know what one said and what one told
Our hearts' communion and the broken spells
When the loud call blew at the strike of bells?
No one, I know, yet let me be believed
A soul entirely known is life achieved.
Years blank with hardship never speak a wordLive in the soul to make the being stirred,Towns can be prisons where the spirit dullsAway from mates and ocean-wandering hulls,Away from all bright water and great hillsAnd sheep-walks where the curlews cry their fills,Away in towns, where eyes have nought to seeBut dead museums and miles of miseryAnd floating life unrooted from man's needAnd miles of fish-hooks baited to catch greedAnd life made wretched out of human kenAnd miles of shopping women served by men.So, if the penman sums my London daysLet him but say that there were holy ways,Dull Bloomsbury streets of dull brick mansions oldWith stinking doors where women stood to scoldAnd drunken waits at Christmas with their hornDroning the news, in snow, that Christ was born;And windy gas lamps and the wet roads shiningAnd that old carol of the midnight whining,And that old room (above the noisy slum)Where there was wine and fire and talk with someUnder strange pictures of the wakened soulTo whom this earth was but a burnt-out coal.
Years blank with hardship never speak a word
Live in the soul to make the being stirred,
Towns can be prisons where the spirit dulls
Away from mates and ocean-wandering hulls,
Away from all bright water and great hills
And sheep-walks where the curlews cry their fills,
Away in towns, where eyes have nought to see
But dead museums and miles of misery
And floating life unrooted from man's need
And miles of fish-hooks baited to catch greed
And life made wretched out of human ken
And miles of shopping women served by men.
So, if the penman sums my London days
Let him but say that there were holy ways,
Dull Bloomsbury streets of dull brick mansions old
With stinking doors where women stood to scold
And drunken waits at Christmas with their horn
Droning the news, in snow, that Christ was born;
And windy gas lamps and the wet roads shining
And that old carol of the midnight whining,
And that old room (above the noisy slum)
Where there was wine and fire and talk with some
Under strange pictures of the wakened soul
To whom this earth was but a burnt-out coal.
O Time, bring back those midnights and those friends,Those glittering moments that a spirit lendsThat all may be imagined from the flashThe cloud-hid god-game through the lightning gashThose hours of stricken sparks from which men tookLight to send out to men in song or book.Those friends who heard St. Pancras' bells strike twoYet stayed until the barber's cockerel crew.Talking of noble styles, the Frenchman's best,The thought beyond great poets not expressed,The glory of mood where human frailty failed,The forts of human light not yet assailed,Till the dim room had mind and seemed to broodBinding our wills to mental brotherhood,Till we became a college, and each nightWas discipline and manhood and delight,Till our farewells and winding down the stairsAt each grey dawn had meaning that Time spares,That we, so linked, should roam the whole world roundTeaching the ways our brooding minds had foundMaking that room our Chapter, our one mindWhere all that this world soiled should be refined.
O Time, bring back those midnights and those friends,
Those glittering moments that a spirit lends
That all may be imagined from the flash
The cloud-hid god-game through the lightning gash
Those hours of stricken sparks from which men took
Light to send out to men in song or book.
Those friends who heard St. Pancras' bells strike two
Yet stayed until the barber's cockerel crew.
Talking of noble styles, the Frenchman's best,
The thought beyond great poets not expressed,
The glory of mood where human frailty failed,
The forts of human light not yet assailed,
Till the dim room had mind and seemed to brood
Binding our wills to mental brotherhood,
Till we became a college, and each night
Was discipline and manhood and delight,
Till our farewells and winding down the stairs
At each grey dawn had meaning that Time spares,
That we, so linked, should roam the whole world round
Teaching the ways our brooding minds had found
Making that room our Chapter, our one mind
Where all that this world soiled should be refined.
Often at night I tread those streets againAnd see the alley glimmering in the rain,Yet now I miss that sign of earlier trampsA house with shadows of plane-boughs under lamps,The secret house where once a beggar stoodTrembling and blind to show his woe for food.And now I miss that friend who used to walkHome to my lodgings with me, deep in talk,Wearing the last of night out in still streetsTrodden by us and policemen on their beatsAnd cats, but else deserted; now I missThat lively mind and guttural laugh of hisAnd that strange way he had of making gleam,Like something real, the art we used to dream.
Often at night I tread those streets again
And see the alley glimmering in the rain,
Yet now I miss that sign of earlier tramps
A house with shadows of plane-boughs under lamps,
The secret house where once a beggar stood
Trembling and blind to show his woe for food.
And now I miss that friend who used to walk
Home to my lodgings with me, deep in talk,
Wearing the last of night out in still streets
Trodden by us and policemen on their beats
And cats, but else deserted; now I miss
That lively mind and guttural laugh of his
And that strange way he had of making gleam,
Like something real, the art we used to dream.
London has been my prison; but my booksHills and great waters, labouring men and brooks,Ships and deep friendships and remembered daysWhich even now set all my mind ablazeAs that June day when, in the red bricks' chinksI saw the old Roman ruins white with pinksAnd felt the hillside haunted even thenBy not dead memory of the Roman men.And felt the hillside thronged by souls unseenWho knew the interest in me and were keenThat man alive should understand man deadSo many centuries since the blood was shed.And quickened with strange hush because this comerSensed a strange soul alive behind the summer.That other day on Ercall when the stonesWere sunbleached white, like long unburied bones,While the bees droned and all the air was sweetFrom honey buried underneath my feet,Honey of purple heather and white cloverSealed in its gummy bags till summer's over.Then other days by water, by bright sea,Clear as clean glass and my bright friend with me,The cove clean bottomed where we saw the brownRed spotted plaice go skimming six feet downAnd saw the long fronds waving, white with shells,Waving, unfolding, drooping, to the swells;That sadder day when we beheld the greatAnd terrible beauty of a Lammas spateRoaring white-mouthed in all the great cliff's gapsHeadlong, tree-tumbling fury of collapse,While drenching clouds drove by and every senseWas water roaring or rushing or in offence,And mountain sheep stood huddled and blown gaps gleamedWhere torn white hair of torrents shook and streamed.That sadder day when we beheld againA spate going down in sunshine after rain,When the blue reach of water leaping brightWas one long ripple and clatter, flecked with white.And that far day, that never blotted pageWhen youth was bright like flowers about old ageFair generations bringing thanks for lifeTo that old kindly man and trembling wifeAfter their sixty years: Time never madeA better beauty since the Earth was laidThan that thanksgiving given to grey hairFor the great gift of life which brought them there.
London has been my prison; but my books
Hills and great waters, labouring men and brooks,
Ships and deep friendships and remembered days
Which even now set all my mind ablaze
As that June day when, in the red bricks' chinks
I saw the old Roman ruins white with pinks
And felt the hillside haunted even then
By not dead memory of the Roman men.
And felt the hillside thronged by souls unseen
Who knew the interest in me and were keen
That man alive should understand man dead
So many centuries since the blood was shed.
And quickened with strange hush because this comer
Sensed a strange soul alive behind the summer.
That other day on Ercall when the stones
Were sunbleached white, like long unburied bones,
While the bees droned and all the air was sweet
From honey buried underneath my feet,
Honey of purple heather and white clover
Sealed in its gummy bags till summer's over.
Then other days by water, by bright sea,
Clear as clean glass and my bright friend with me,
The cove clean bottomed where we saw the brown
Red spotted plaice go skimming six feet down
And saw the long fronds waving, white with shells,
Waving, unfolding, drooping, to the swells;
That sadder day when we beheld the great
And terrible beauty of a Lammas spate
Roaring white-mouthed in all the great cliff's gaps
Headlong, tree-tumbling fury of collapse,
While drenching clouds drove by and every sense
Was water roaring or rushing or in offence,
And mountain sheep stood huddled and blown gaps gleamed
Where torn white hair of torrents shook and streamed.
That sadder day when we beheld again
A spate going down in sunshine after rain,
When the blue reach of water leaping bright
Was one long ripple and clatter, flecked with white.
And that far day, that never blotted page
When youth was bright like flowers about old age
Fair generations bringing thanks for life
To that old kindly man and trembling wife
After their sixty years: Time never made
A better beauty since the Earth was laid
Than that thanksgiving given to grey hair
For the great gift of life which brought them there.
Days of endeavour have been good: the daysRacing in cutters for the comrade's praise,The day they led my cutter at the turnYet could not keep the lead and dropped astern,The moment in the spurt when both boats' oarsDipped in each other's wash and throats grew hoarseAnd teeth ground into teeth and both strokes quickenedLashing the sea, and gasps came, and hearts sickenedAnd coxswains damned us, dancing, banking stroke,To put our weights on, though our hearts were brokeAnd both boats seemed to stick and sea seemed glue,The tide a mill race we were struggling throughAnd every quick recover gave us squintsOf them still there, and oar tossed water-glintsAnd cheering came, our friends, our foemen cheering,A long, wild, rallying murmur on the hearing--"Port Fore!" and "Starboard Fore!""Port Fore." "Port Fore.""Up with her, Starboard," and at that each oarLightened, though arms were bursting, and eyes shutAnd the oak stretchers grunted in the strutAnd the curse quickened from the cox, our bowsCrashed, and drove talking water, we made vowsChastity vows and temperance; in our painWe numbered things we'd never eat againIf we could only win; then came the yell"Starboard," "Port Fore," and then a beaten bellRung as for fire to cheer us. "Now." Oars bentSoul took the looms now body's bolt was spent,"Damn it, come on now," "On now," "On now," "Starboard."
Days of endeavour have been good: the days
Racing in cutters for the comrade's praise,
The day they led my cutter at the turn
Yet could not keep the lead and dropped astern,
The moment in the spurt when both boats' oars
Dipped in each other's wash and throats grew hoarse
And teeth ground into teeth and both strokes quickened
Lashing the sea, and gasps came, and hearts sickened
And coxswains damned us, dancing, banking stroke,
To put our weights on, though our hearts were broke
And both boats seemed to stick and sea seemed glue,
The tide a mill race we were struggling through
And every quick recover gave us squints
Of them still there, and oar tossed water-glints
And cheering came, our friends, our foemen cheering,
A long, wild, rallying murmur on the hearing--
"Port Fore!" and "Starboard Fore!"
"Port Fore." "Port Fore."
"Up with her, Starboard," and at that each oar
Lightened, though arms were bursting, and eyes shut
And the oak stretchers grunted in the strut
And the curse quickened from the cox, our bows
Crashed, and drove talking water, we made vows
Chastity vows and temperance; in our pain
We numbered things we'd never eat again
If we could only win; then came the yell
"Starboard," "Port Fore," and then a beaten bell
Rung as for fire to cheer us. "Now." Oars bent
Soul took the looms now body's bolt was spent,
"Damn it, come on now," "On now," "On now," "Starboard."