III: The Lost Shipmate: Poems of the Sea
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Fifty sail in the harbor,
When the white-caps swagger
free—
A fishing-smack in the “Narrows,”
And a hundred more at sea.
And the spoil of the East and the South |
5 |
Where
scented blossoms spill,
Passing the grinding icebergs
To our town on the windy
hill.
Wealth of our northern waters,
From Torbay ’round
to White, |
10 |
Racing
in with the fog-rack
Between the hills and the
“Light.”
The walls of the City of Winds
Are battered, and grim and
rent;
Worried by winds and fires |
15 |
And
fogs that are never spent.
The heart of our City of Winds
Is light ’neath the
scars and grime—
Unhurt by the hurrying flame,
Or the leisurely hands of
time. |
20 |
Strange men go by in the streets
Bearded from chin to eyes,
And their ships, asleep in the dock
Are dreaming of other skies.
Dreaming of palm-fringed keys |
25 |
And
the smell of the lands they know
And the bluster of winter winds
In the Gulf of Mexico. [Page
31]
Here is a fishing schooner
Of Fundy and Bank renown, |
30 |
With
a crew from the tide-torn Avon
And a skipper from Yarmouth
town.
The brown hills lean and ponder
O’er harbor and street
and square
With never a question or answer |
35 |
For
the trafficking people there.
Fifty sail in the harbor,
Straining to stagger free—
A mail-boat in the “Narrows,”
And a blowing of horns at
sea. |
40 |
A chiming of bells in the towers—
The boom of the midday gun,
And the fog-bank thins and rises
Beneath the joy of the sun. |
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Ind.
1899, Ind. |
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Now let him rest,
Toil-worn hands on nerveless breast.
Fish come into the silver bays,
And red suns go to the west.
But never again with wind and tide |
5 |
Will
he pull out from the harbour-side:
Never again will he stoop and toil
On the flakes where the fish are dried.
He knew these wonders—fog and wind;
The lifting dark with fire behind; |
10 |
The
slosh of surf in weedy rocks;
The flurries white and blind. [Page 32]
In dread and hunger he sailed and steered.
Famine and cold were the things he feared:
But now he feels no want nor doubt |
15 |
Since
the farthest cape was cleared.
Gulls wing over the laughing bay
Where he and his cares toiled yesterday;
And down where his lobster traps are piled
The green tide has its way. |
20 |
When winds draw south, and ice drives in,
And the landwash shakes with crashing din,
Right well he’ll know, though his eyes be
shut,
How the white spume hisses thin.
When sea smoke hides the crawling sea, |
25 |
And
black reefs crouch expectantly,
He’ll know the drag of the twisting tide
And the doomed brig’s agony.
Now let him sleep.
Nothing to win; nothing to keep; |
30 |
Nothing
to want; nothing to fear—
Buried so soft and deep! |
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L.B.
1899, U.M. |
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Black as iron is the landwash
Under the wet fog;
And green sucks the tide.
Back of all lie barren and bog.
Up here, amid granite and spruce-tuck, |
5 |
Drift
sounds as of fairies singing,
And lost souls sighing,
And far bells ringing,
And lovers laughing and crying; [Page 33]
And out of the fog, like a ghost, |
10 |
Steps
simple Black Jarge Crew,
Playing his fiddle, poor fellow!—
Knowing naught else to do.
He sees granite and spruce-tuck,
Juniper, pond and bog, |
15 |
And
down past the broken cliff
The green tide under the fog:
But he sees more beside,
Does simple Black Jarge Crew
Stepping above the tide |
20 |
And
abroad in the barren places:
He sees flickery faces
Peeping out from the fern:
He knows where the Good People hide—
The little, gay, soulless fairies— |
25 |
And
the Lost Gunner walks by his side.
He hears a whisper of singing
From deep and deep underground
Of gnomes a-sweat at their anvils;
And his fiddle mimics the sound. |
30 |
He has no luck at the fishing:
He’s good for nothing: but when
These skiffs and stages are rotted
And dead are these fishermen,
And skipper Flynn is forgotten |
35 |
And
naught of his store’s to be found,
This barren above the tides
Will still be “Fiddler’s Ground.” |
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*L.B.
1926, Can. Mag. (As “Old Fiddlers
Ground”) |
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34] |
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In the old days before the building of the light
houses, the poor “noddies” of many
a Newfoundland outport prayed for wrecks—aye,
and with easy consciences. Only a few hundreds
of them who took to deep-sea voyaging ever learned
anything of the world and its peoples. All
the world, excepting their own desolate bays and
“down Nort”, was “up-along”
to them. Montreal, Pernambuco, London, Oporto,
Boston, Halifax—all were included in up-along
to them; and up-along was a grand, rich place
where all men were gentlemen wearing collars and
coats, eating figgy-duff every day and smoking
all they wanted to. The folk of up-along
had the easy end of life; so why shouldn’t
they contribute something of their goods and gear
to poor but honest noddies now and then, even
if against their inclinations—aye, even
if at the cost of their lives?
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Give us a wrack or two, Good Lard,
For winter in Tops’il Tickle bes hard,
Wid grey frost creepin’ like mortal sin
And perishin’ lack of bread in the bin.
A grand, rich wrack, us do humbly pray, |
5 |
Busted
abroad at the break o’ day
An’ hove clear in ’crost Tops’il
Reef,
Wid victuals an’ gear to beguile our grief.
God of reefs an’ tides an’ sky,
Heed Ye our need an’ hark to our cry! |
10 |
Bread
by the bag an’ beef by the cask.
Ease for sore bellies bes all we ask.
One grand wrack—or maybe two?—
Wid gear an’ victuals to see us through
’Til Spring starts up like the leap of day |
15 |
An’
the fish strike back into Tops’il Bay.
One rich wrack—for Thy hand bes strong!
A barque or a brig from up-along
Bemused by Thy twisty tides, O Lard!
For winter in Tops’il Tickle bes hard. [Page
35] |
20 |
Loud an’ long will us sing Yer praise,
Marciful Fadder, O ancient of Days,
Master of fog an’ tide an’ reef!
Heave us a wrack to beguile our grief. Amen. |
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*L.B.
1934, L.B. |
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When the drift spins white, and the winds are high,
And the black clouds race in the sullen sky,
The Mother Carey, down in
the sea,
Startles her chickens up
from her knee.
With shout and laughter she bids them fly. |
5 |
“Oh, the white foam gleams, and the wave-heads
sing,
So up my pretty ones, strong of wing.
There’s many a good ship out to-night,
Sheeted with spray and blind with fright:
So follow them close, till the thing is done, |
10 |
And
bring me the dead hearts one by one.”
For this is her way when the giant sea
Rages, stark mad, and the stunned ships flee;
She sends her chickens,
strong of flight,
Out of the sea and into
the night, |
15 |
To
guide dead mariners down to her knee.
They say that her song has a magic ring
To sailormen, weary of journeying;
That brave eyes close in
a lotus sleep—
All’s well! and
never a watch to keep; |
20 |
And
the Joy of Life seems a little thing
When they follow the flash of the dipping wing.
Their brisk sea voices will lift no more
When the anchor is catted for some strange shore.
[Page 36] Heart-ache
is done and tears are past, |
25 |
And
the red weeds cling to the broken mast,
And never a lean back springs to the oar.
They say that these swift, brown birds, that flee
And skim in our wake, when the wind is free,
Are the souls of mariners drowned in the sea— |
30 |
That
they guide dead comrades down, far down,
To the swaying streets of a coral town,
Where the mother sits in her tide-spun gown. |
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*Ind. (in pref to L.B.)
1901, Ind. |
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Mad, they call me. Mad Dick Chant I be;
Struck so, folk say, by the crashing of reef and
sea
That night I was hove ashore in Hermitage Bay
Along wid the timbers an’ spars of The
Mary J.
Daft, they call me. Daft Dick Chant be I, |
5 |
Weeping
when others be merry, laughing when others cry;
Running the frothy landwash when the night blows
wild,
Or smoking a pipe by the red stove, contented and
mild.
Strangers are warned I be queer; a touch on the
forehead, so,
Some don’t look at me eye to eye, for fear
I’d guess they know. |
10 |
They
give me tobacco and pity an’ leave me go my
way—
Sole survivor—Mad Dick Chant—of The
Mary J.
They give me bread and meat; a roof to shelter my
head;
Tea for my smoky kettle and blankets enough to my
bed.
They leave me sit, or step abroad, at my own wild
whim. |
15 |
“But
for the Mercy of God,” they say, “we’d
be like him.”
But for the mercy of God! I have my laugh
at that….
When the moon is round and the tide all shiny and
flat [Page 37]
I steal away in the shadows of rocks, and wet rocks
let me through….
But for the Mercy of God, say I, I’d be the
same as you! |
20 |
Deep in Witchery Cave the tides and moon spin green,
Spinning a gleam the noddies ashore have never guessed
nor seen:
And old King Neptune’s daughters there are
playing on harps of shell:
They sing for me and laugh like bells at the sailor
yarns I tell.
Skipper Nolan’s got a girl from Bully Bay
for his bride. |
25 |
I
know a room by sea-lamps lit, down under the swelling
tide—
A secret place; and a king’s daughter with
breasts agleam like pearl:
And poor Dick Chant is a prince down there in the
arms of his deep-sea
girl.
When the blind gale blows black and loud I hear
her call to me—
The silver voice, through the crashing surf, of
my sweetheart |
30 |
| under-sea: |
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And
so I run the spouting reef, splashing the wild night
through,
Breasting the surf with my strong heart—for
my mad dreams are true.
And when the moon is white and round I wade into
the tide
To sink among the oaring fish and glide where black
eels glide;
And silky curtains of purple weed part and let me
down |
35 |
To
where the love of my true heart waits in a tide-spun
gown.
Mad, they call me. Mad Dick Chant I be—
A poor, daft seafaring fool ashore but a lover under
the sea.
Meat and bread they give me, and leave me go my
way
Down to the arms of a king’s daughter under
the shiny bay.
|
40 |
Mad Dick Chant they call me. Mad as the wind
be I,
Running all night along the rocks to hear my dear
love’s cry.
Pity and blankets they give me and a roof to shelter
my head;
And little they guess of the truth of the place
I make my bed!
Down in Witchery Cave the tides and moon spin green: |
45 |
Green
gowns for a sea-king’s daughters and for a
king and queen,
[Page
38]
And a princely robe for a laughing sailor, courting
his gentle bride.
Poor Dick Chant I be ashore—but a lover under
the tide! |
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L.B.
*1931
1932, Can. Mag. |
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The harbour and city of Pernambuco are behind
a reef. The reef is topped by a brick wall
built long ago, when the port was a possession
of Holland, by workmen who knew their trade of
raising barriers against the sea. But the
rollers of three hundred years have knocked a
few holes in the good Dutch brickwork through
which spray bursts upon the opaque green (and
shark infested) waters of the harbour like the
smoke of great guns and with a booming as of guns.
I was there in May, which
is not the best time to visit Pernambuco.
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Not a leaf stirs in the rubbery looking trees.
The Skipper’s shirt is wilted and he’s
dripping at the knees.
Whistle a breeze!
Brown girls move along on slithery dry feet,
Selling sticky sweets; |
5 |
And
brown men squat asleep in the hot street—
In all the hot streets—
With their shins in their hands and chins on their
knees.
Whistle a breeze!
Narrow dark doors stand open here and there, |
10 |
Inviting
mates and masters in from the glare,
Through high dark stores to dusky cool bars,
Smelling of green limes and oily cigars,
Of bitters and pale rum and white anisette
And the slow blue smoke of a brown cigarette. |
15 |
Whistle
a drink!
“What will you have, Sir? Just name
your fancy!
“Gin and green coconut?—called a ‘Miss
Nancy.’
“A long lime-squash, Sir, laced with white
rum?—
“Known in these parts as a ‘Skippers’
Kingdom Come.’”
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39] |
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In Tucker’s dusky bar we give noon the slip:
But the more we cool our necks the more we drip-drip,
Dripping at the shoulders and wilting at the knees.
Whistle a breeze!
While I blow smoke of a fat green cigar, |
25 |
The
Skipper sings a ditty of a sailor and a star—
Of how a sailor’s sweetie a sailor’s
star should be….
One more “Miss Nancy” will be enough
for me! |
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L.B.
*(1901)
1934, L.B. |
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Sailing North
off Pernambuco
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North! We are sailing North,
The song at the windlass
is done.
The slim, still palms, astern,
Are black ‘gainst
the orange sun.
North! She is heading North, |
5 |
And
the shouldering trade is free,
And rail, and deck, and spar,
Are sick of the purple sea!
Weary of calm and squall;
Weary of billow and spray; |
10 |
Weary
of blue and gold,
And sick for the seas of
gray.
North! We are sailing North,
And the sudden darkness
is white
With the foam of the herding seas |
15 |
And
the long wake’s silver light.
The light of the galley door
Gleams red on the slanting
deck.
Windward the long seas leap
Racing us neck and neck.
[Page 40] |
20 |
North! We are sailing North,
Lifting, and leaning over.
We are dreaming of inland fields
And the little winds in
the clover.
Here is the tenth of May |
25 |
And
the breeze at a nine-knot tune!
We’re reeling, a-sea, to-night—
We’ll be laughing,
ashore, in June.
North! We are heading North,
And far in the dusk I see |
30 |
A
warm light, low on the Coast of Dream,
Marking the course for me. |
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Ind.
*1901
1901, Ind. |
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“At a place called Fiddler’s Green,
there do all honest Mariners take their pleasure
after death; and there are Admirals with their
dear Ladies, and Captains of lost voyages with
the Sweethearts of their youth, and tarry-handed
Sailormen singing in cottage gardens.”
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Never again shall we beat out to sea
In rain and mist and sleet like bitter tears,
And watch the harbour beacons fade a-lee,
And people all the sea-room with our fears.
Our toil is done. No more, no more do we |
5 |
Square
the slow yards and stagger on the sea.
No more for us the white and windless day
Undimmed, unshadowed, where the weed drifts by
And leaden fish pass, rolling, at their play,
And changeless suns glide up a changeless sky, |
10 |
Our
watch is done; and never more shall we
Whistle a wind across a fest’ring sea, [Page
41]
Cities we saw: white wall and glinting dome,
And palm-fringed islands gleaming on the blue.
To us more fair the kindly sights of home— |
15 |
The
climbing streets and windows shining true.
Our voyage is done, and never more shall we
Reef bucking topsails on a tossing sea.
Wonders we knew and beauty in far ports;
Laughter and peril round the swinging deep;
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20 |
The
wrath of God; the pomp of pagan courts…
The rocks sprang black! ... and we awoke from
sleep!
Our task is done; and never more shall we
Square the slow yards and stagger on the sea.
Here are the hearts we love, the lips we know, |
25 |
The
hands of seafarers who came before.
The eyes that wept for us, a night ago,
Are laughing now that we shall part no more.
All care is past; and never more shall we
Make sail at daybreak for the grievous sea. |
30 |
L.B.
*1901
1903, Ind. |
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Beyond the surf and the reef,
Beyond the gloom and the
gleam,
Beyond the purple veils
Where lost sailors dream,
The Wind of the Night awakes |
5 |
In
fenceless pastures of din;
Seizing their manes of foam,
She gallops her horses in.
[Page 42]
White is her face and fair;
Her hands are like palest
shells; |
10 |
She
sleeps where sea-fire burns
And mermaids weave their
spells.
All day she drifts and dreams,
With a cheek in an idle
hand,—
But as soon as the stars flame out, |
15 |
She
gallops the waves to land.
Mad, at the urge of her hand
They plunge and rear at
the bit:
Arching their foaming necks
And tossing their manes
a-lit |
20 |
They
hurdle the frothy reef;
To the cruel lash of her
hand,
They stagger the marshalled rocks
And trample the flinching
sand.
All night long, till dawn, |
25 |
The
furious herds race in.
Back in the fields of cane
The salty spray drifts thin.
She charges the sloshing reef,
And black rocks heave and
dip. |
30 |
Under
the eaves of our house
Resounds the lash of her
whip.
Along the hills in the east
A yellow flame upwaves;
Behind the crested palms |
35 |
A
tide of saffron laves;
Then, in rose and gold,
The glad lights flare and
flee,
And the Night Wind herds her horses
To the pastures of the
sea. |
40 |
L.B.
1904, Y.C. (as “The Mad Rider”) |
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43] |
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A pink-walled house between the cane-fields and
the surf was a good place in which to write verses.
The sea sang in one’s ears all day there,
and all night, too. The shimmer and flash
of sunshine on breaking water filled the upper
rooms all day; and all night they were filled
with the wavering silver of reflected starshine.
The coral rocks in the surf were black with wind
and sea; the sand was lilac; and the surf riding
in from the blue and green was white as washed
wool.
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Pipe, bird, in the tamarind tree.
Pipe, wind, on the azure sea.
Here is the Season of Peace on Earth.
Pipe merrily.
Roar, surf, on the outer reef. |
5 |
Sing,
bird, on the plantain leaf.
Here is the Season of Joyous Living!
Have done with grief.
Whiter than snow, the surf rides in.
In the tamarind trees the songs begin.
|
10 |
Out
in the tumble of blue upstarts
A flashing fin.
Shout, surf; and pipe, wind;
Though seas are wide, the world is kind.
Joy has a nest in the tamarind tree |
15 |
For
Love to find.
Over the cane-fields breaks the day.
The boats are out in Martin’s Bay;
Sliding and plunging into the surf,
Seaward to safety they bear away. |
20 |
The salty sails flap up and fill;
The men at the wet sheets whistle shrill;
The glad wind wrinkles the sea, and leaps
To the coconut trees on the crooked hill. [Page
44]
The planter’s windmill, heavy and slow, |
25 |
Turns
its arms in the azure glow,
Waves a hand to the sea, and sweeps
The trampled canes in the yard below.
The morning smoke-wreaths fade away
In the brighter blue of the sudden day; |
30 |
And
naked children play in the sun,
Racing the surf of Martin’s bay.
The palms, high-crested and straight and fine,
Swing and bend in line on line.
The tall canes rustle and clash and sigh |
35 |
As
the winter wind goes over and by.
Our shutters creak in the breath of the sea;
And blackbirds hop in the almond tree.
Across the surf at the outer reef,
With skill and valour beyond belief,
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40 |
The
tiny fishing-boats plunge and strain,
Race and soar and top the surf,
And win to the lilac sands again.
The lithe brown children have gone to rest—
Shell-hunting over for one more day.
|
45 |
Purple
the east and purple the west,
And white stars over Martin’s Bay.
The boats, dismasted, gunwale to side,
Rest and forget the turmoil and spray;
A dreamless sleep, till to-morrow’s tide |
50 |
Slips
from the sands of Martin’s Bay.
The salt wind turns in the crested grove;
The shutters creak in the turning wind;
But the lamps are lit for hearts that rove,
And the path is bright for joy to find.
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55 |
L.B. 1904,
Ind. (as “Winter Lyrics”) |
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45] |
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Fades the sodden wharf, and fades the spire.
The anchored ships are lost.
The climbing town
Fades out. The narrows close. The cliffs
retire.
The green hill-pastures blur
against the brown.
The free wind strains our pinions of gray sail. |
5 |
Low slips the sombre shore toward the blue.
The sun-shot lighthouse windows glint and fail.
Our rounded topsails dip their
long adieu. |
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Lipp. 1906,
Lipp. |
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I am strong for mermaids, though I must admit
that some of them are mischievously inclined.
I believe in them: but there are dusty professors,
with long noses stuck into books, who argue that
the whole mermaid tradition is founded on nothing
more or other than seals glimpsed suddenly and
unexpectedly by drunken sailors and fishermen.
Seals! I have seen seals—and maybe
I’ve seen mermaids. Nobody but a fool,
and certainly not a sailor with three sheets in
the wind, would mistake a seal for a mermaid.
Some people are always trying to take such joys
as mermaids and fairies out of our difficult lives.
But here are some verses which prove that mermaids
are not seals.
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The bell is gone from the pitching buoy;
The warning voice is gone from the reef,
With its sudden clangour and shaking grief.
Stand wide! Stand clear! ’Ware rocks, Mariner.
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5 |
Death
lurks here!
Wakeful, it hung in its iron cage—
Clatter and clang when seas smashed wild,
Boom and bang when tides span mild. Stand wide!
Run clear! |
10 |
’Ware
reefs, Mariner.
Death lurks near. [Page 46]
Night and noon and dawn and eve,
It shook, from the tumult of green and white, Its
boom of warning and clatter of fright—
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15 |
’Ware
rocks! Stand clear!
Peril is near.
Silver mermaids found the bell.
Laughing sea-maids took it down
From the pitching buoy to their coral town, |
20 |
And
stilled its clangy voice to sleep,
Restful and deep.
The ships stands in; there is naught to hear—
No clang of bell, so nothing’s to fear.
All’s well. All’s clear.
|
25 |
| But
death is here! |
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L.B. 1907,
Ind. (as “The Lost Bell”) |
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Drag the yards ‘round, lads, with a yo-ho!
Lug the beggars ‘round.
Mark the heads’ill pull, lads! Sure,
an’ they must know
We’re runnin’ for the little port between
the hills of snow.
Tail along the brace, lads. Yo-ho—Heave
all— |
5 |
Pull
together!
Th’ Skipper’s on the poop, lads, hark’nin’
to the call,
With one eye on the compass an’ t’other
on the squall.
Bend your backs as one, lads. Yo-ho—Heave
away—
Snatch her ‘round! |
10 |
Ahead,
the eternal ocean is smokin’ white an’
gray,
And we’ll be sightin’ Signal Hill afore
Saint Patrick’s Day.
[Page 47]
Pull the yards ’round, lads, with a yo-ho!
Lug the fors’il ’round. Let the scuppers
slobber an’ let the tempest |
15 |
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blow— |
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Let
the wrack to win’ward churn the sea below—
Lads, we’re home-bound! |
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Out. 1907,
Out. |
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A shadow deep in the wave astern,
A quiver of green, a sliding
fin
Shifting, but ever keeping the course—
Silent and keen as sin.
Sometimes close in our wake he swam, |
5 |
And sometimes far, with a careless air—
But we knew that ever those evil eyes
Were wide awake and aware.
Through the doldrums, across the Line
We
crawled; and on deck, at every turn, |
10 |
The
Skipper marked, with uneasy gaze,
That voyaging fin astern.
All day, all night, day in, day out,
It held to our course on
that lazy sea.
“He be waitin’ for more nor the galley
slops,” |
15 |
Said Boatswain Pat McGee.
The men aloft looked aft and saw,
(Where the sinister dorsal
tacked and slid),
An eye that stared at our rolling hull
With
never the blink of a lid. |
20 |
At last we won to brisker seas,
With spray abeam and porpoise
ahead: [Page 48]
And the black fin sank in our bubbling wake…
“Thank God!”
the Skipper said. |
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*Hal. Herald (1932) (in pref. to L.B.) 1911,
Ind. |
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|
|
|
|
“Strike me blind!” we swore.
God! And I was stricken!
I have seen the morning fade
And
noonday thicken. |
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●
● ●
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Be merciful, O God, that I have named in vain. |
5 |
I
am blind in the eyes; but spare the gleam in my
brain.
Though my footsteps falter, let my soul still sight
The things that were my life before you hid the
light.
Little things were they, Lord, too small to be denied:
The green of roadstead waters where the tired ships
ride, |
10 |
Bark
and brig and barkentine, blown from near and far,
Safe inside the spouting reef and the sobbing bar.
Leave to me my pictures, Lord, leave my memories
bright:
The twisted palms are clashing, and the sand is
white.
The shore-boats crowd around us, the skipper’s
gig is manned, |
15 |
And
nutmegs spice the little wind that baffles off the
land.
The negro girls are singing in the fields of cane,
The lizards dart on that white path I’ll not
walk again,
The opal blinds melt up at dawn, the crimson blinds
flare down,
And white against the mountains flash the street-lamps
of the |
20 |
| town. |
|
Leave to me my pictures, Lord, spare my mind to
see
The shimmer of the water and shadow of the tree,
[Page 49]
The cables roaring down, the gray sails swiftly
furled,
A riding-light ablink in some far corner of the
world.
Leave to me my pictures, Lord: the islands and the
main, |
25 |
The
little things a sailorman must out to see again;
The beggars in the market-place, the oxen in the
streets,
The bitter, black tobacco and the women selling
sweets.
I have fed my vision, Lord; now I pray to hold
The blue and gray and silver, the green and brown
and gold. |
30 |
I
have filled my heart, Lord; now I pray to keep
The laughter and the colour through this unlifting
sleep. |
|
●
● ● |
|
“Strike me blind!” we swore.
God! And I am blind!
But leave me still, O Lord, |
35 |
|
The pictures in the mind! |
|
*Can. Mag. (in pref. to L.B.)
1912, Can. Mag. |
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|
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Somewhere he left me; somewhere he slipt away—
Youth, in his ignorant
faith and his bright array.
The tides go out, the tides come flooding in,
And still the old years
pass and the new begin—
But Youth— |
5 |
Somewhere we lost each other, last year or yesterday.
Somewhere
he failed me…. Down at the harbourside.
I waited and watched for
him where anchored argosies ride.
I thought he came! ‘Twas the dawn-wind
blowing free:
I saw his shadow—and
‘twas the shadow of me. |
10 |
Somewhere
my shipmate left me, between a tide and a tide.
[Page 50]
It
may be that I shall find him. It may be he
waits for me,
Sipping those wines we
knew in the draught of a breeze from the
sea.
The tides still serve; and I am out and away
To search the spicy harbours
of Yesterday, |
15 |
Where
the lamps of the town shine yellow beyond the lamps
of the quay.
Somewhere he failed me, somewhere he turned away—
Youth, of the careless
heart and the bright array.
Was it in Bados? God, I would pay to know!
Was it on Spanish Hill,
where the roses blow? |
20 |
Shall
I hear his laughter to-morrow in painted Olivio?
Somewhere I failed him; somewhere I let him depart—
Youth, who would only sleep
for the morn’s fresh start!
The tides still serve; the ships pass out and in;—
Anchors a-weigh to the
capstans’ clanking din!— |
25 |
But
Youth?—
Shall I find you south
of the Gulf?—or are you dead in my heart? |
|
L.B.
1913,
Can. Mag. |
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| [Page
51] |
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