Georgian Poetry 1913-15 Part 26

We thought it truth, and when we saw her there Lying in dock, beyond, across the stream, We would forget that we had called her fair, We thought her murderess and the past a dream.

And when she sailed again we watched in awe, Wondering what b.l.o.o.d.y act her beauty planned, What evil lurked behind the thing we saw, What strength was there that thus annulled man's hand,

How next its triumph would compel man's will Into compliance with external Fate, How next the powers would use her to work ill On suffering men; we had not long to wait.

For soon the outcry of derision rose, 'Here comes the 'Wanderer'!' the expected cry.

Guessing the cause, our mockings joined with those Yelled from the s.h.i.+pping as they towed her by.

She pa.s.sed us close, her seamen paid no heed To what was called: they stood, a sullen group, Smoking and spitting, careless of her need, Mocking the orders given from the p.o.o.p.

Her mates and boys were working her; we stared.

What was the reason of this strange return, This third annulling of the thing prepared?

No outward evil could our eyes discern.

Only like someone who has formed a plan Beyond the pitch of common minds, she sailed, Mocked and deserted by the common man, Made half divine to me for having failed.

We learned the reason soon; below the town A stay had parted like a snapping reed, 'Warning,' the men thought, 'not to take her down.'

They took the omen, they would not proceed.

Days pa.s.sed before another crew would sign.

The 'Wanderer' lay in dock alone, unmanned, Feared as a thing possessed by powers malign, Bound under curses not to leave the land.

But under pa.s.sing Time fear pa.s.ses too; That terror pa.s.sed, the sailors' hearts grew bold.

We learned in time that she had found a crew And was bound out and southwards as of old.

And in contempt we thought, 'A little while Will bring her back again, dismantled, spoiled.

It is herself; she cannot change her style; She has the habit now of being foiled.'

So when a s.h.i.+p appeared among the haze We thought, 'The 'Wanderer' back again'; but no, No 'Wanderer' showed for many, many days, Her pa.s.sing lights made other waters glow.

But we would often think and talk of her, Tell newer hands her story, wondering, then, Upon what ocean she was 'Wanderer', Bound to the cities built by foreign men.

And one by one our little conclave thinned, Pa.s.sed into s.h.i.+ps, and sailed, and so away, To drown in some great roaring of the wind, Wanderers themselves, unhappy fortune's prey.

And Time went by me making memory dim.

Yet still I wondered if the 'Wanderer' fared Still pointing to the unreached ocean's rim, Brightening the water where her breast was bared.

And much in ports abroad I eyed the s.h.i.+ps, Hoping to see her well-remembered form Come with a curl of bubbles at her lips Bright to her berth, the sovereign of the storm.

I never did, and many years went by; Then, near a Southern port, one Christmas Eve, I watched a gale go roaring through the sky, Making the cauldrons of the clouds upheave.

Then the wrack tattered and the stars appeared, Millions of stars that seemed to speak in fire; A byre-c.o.c.k cried aloud that morning neared, The swinging wind-vane flashed upon the spire.

And soon men looked upon a glittering earth, Intensely sparkling like a world new-born; Only to look was spiritual birth, So bright the raindrops ran along the thorn.

So bright they were, that one could almost pa.s.s Beyond their twinkling to the source, and know The glory pus.h.i.+ng in the blade of gra.s.s, That hidden soul which makes the flowers grow.

That soul was there apparent, not revealed; Unearthly meanings covered every tree; That wet gra.s.s grew in an immortal field; Those waters fed some never-wrinkled sea.

The scarlet berries in the hedge stood out Like revelations, but the tongue unknown; Even in the brooks a joy was quick; the trout Rushed in a dumbness dumb to me alone.

All of the valley was aloud with brooks; I walked the morning, breasting up the fells, Taking again lost childhood from the rooks, Whose cawing came above the Christmas bells.

I had not walked that glittering world before, But up the hill a prompting came to me, 'This line of upland runs along the sh.o.r.e: Beyond the hedgerow I shall see the sea.'

And on the instant from beyond away That long familiar sound, a s.h.i.+p's bell, broke The hush below me in the unseen bay.

Old memories came: that inner prompting spoke.

And bright above the hedge a seagull's wings Flashed and were steady upon empty air.

'A Power unseen,' I cried, 'prepares these things; 'Those are her bells, the 'Wanderer' is there.'

So, hurrying to the hedge and looking down, I saw a mighty bay's wind-crinkled blue Ruffling the image of a tranquil town, With lapsing waters glittering as they grew.

And near me in the road the s.h.i.+pping swung, So stately and so still in such great peace That like to drooping crests their colours hung, Only their shadows trembled without cease.

I did but glance upon those anch.o.r.ed s.h.i.+ps.

Even as my thought had told, I saw her plain; Tense, like a supple athlete with lean hips, Swiftness at pause, the 'Wanderer' come again--

Come as of old a queen, untouched by Time, Resting the beauty that no seas could tire, Sparkling, as though the midnight's rain were rime, Like a man's thought transfigured into fire.

And as I looked, one of her men began To sing some simple tune of Christmas Day; Among her crew the song spread, man to man, Until the singing rang across the bay;

And soon in other anch.o.r.ed s.h.i.+ps the men Joined in the singing with clear throats, until The farm-boy heard it up the windy glen, Above the noise of sheep-bells on the hill.

Over the water came the lifted song-- Blind pieces in a mighty game we swing; Life's battle is a conquest for the strong; The meaning shows in the defeated thing.

HAROLD MONRO

MILK FOR THE CAT

When the tea is brought at five o'clock, And all the neat curtains are drawn with care, The little black cat with bright green eyes Is suddenly purring there.

At first she pretends, having nothing to do, She has come in merely to blink by the grate, But, though tea may be late or the milk may be sour, She is never late.

And presently her agate eyes Take a soft large milky haze, And her independent casual glance Becomes a stiff, hard gaze.