Georgian Poetry 1911-1912 Part 6

A dear old couple my grandparents were, And kind to all dumb things; they saw in Heaven The lamb that Jesus petted when a child; Their faith was never draped by Doubt: to them Death was a rainbow in Eternity, That promised everlasting brightness soon.

An old seafaring man was he; a rough Old man, but kind; and hairy, like the nut Full of sweet milk. All day on sh.o.r.e he watched The winds for sailors' wives, and told what s.h.i.+ps Enjoyed fair weather, and what s.h.i.+ps had storms; He watched the sky, and he could tell for sure What afternoons would follow stormy morns, If quiet nights would end wild afternoons.

He leapt away from scandal with a roar, And if a whisper still possessed his mind, He walked about and cursed it for a plague.

He took offence at Heaven when beggars pa.s.sed, And sternly called them back to give them help.

In this old captain's house I lived, and things That house contained were in s.h.i.+ps' cabins once; Sea-sh.e.l.ls and charts and pebbles, model s.h.i.+ps; Green weeds, dried fishes stuffed, and coral stalks; Old wooden trunks with handles of spliced rope, With copper saucers full of monies strange, That seemed the savings of dead men, not touched To keep them warm since their real owners died; Strings of red beads, methought were dipped in blood, And swinging lamps, as though the house might move; An ivory lighthouse built on ivory rocks, The bones of fishes and three bottled s.h.i.+ps.

And many a thing was there which sailors make In idle hours, when on long voyages, Of marvellous patience, to no lovely end.

And on those charts I saw the small black dots That were called islands, and I knew they had Turtles and palms, and pirates' buried gold.

There came a stranger to my granddad's house, The old man's nephew, a seafarer too; A big, strong able man who could have walked Twm Barlum's hill all clad in iron mail; So strong he could have made one man his club To knock down others--Henry was his name, No other name was uttered by his kin.

And here he was, insooth illclad, but oh, Thought I, what secrets of the sea are his!

This man knows coral islands in the sea, And dusky girls heartbroken for white men; This sailor knows of wondrous lands afar, More rich than Spain, when the Phoenicians s.h.i.+pped Silver for common ballast, and they saw Horses at silver mangers eating grain; This man has seen the wind blow up a mermaid's hair Which, like a golden serpent, reared and stretched To feel the air away beyond her head.

He begged my pennies, which I gave with joy-- He will most certainly return some time A self-made king of some new land, and rich.

Alas that he, the hero of my dreams, Should be his people's scorn; for they had rose To proud command of s.h.i.+ps, whilst he had toiled Before the mast for years, and well content; Him they despised, and only Death could bring A likeness in his face to show like them.

For he drank all his pay, nor went to sea As long as ale was easy got on sh.o.r.e.

Now, in his last long voyage he had sailed From Plymouth Sound to where sweet odours fan The Cingalese at work, and then back home-- But came not near his kin till pay was spent.

He was not old, yet seemed so; for his face Looked like the drowned man's in the morgue, when it Has struck the wooden wharves and keels of s.h.i.+ps.

And all his flesh was p.r.i.c.ked with Indian ink, His body marked as rare and delicate As dead men struck by lightning under trees, And pictured with fine twigs and curled ferns; Chains on his neck and anchors on his arms; Rings on his fingers, bracelets on his wrist; And on his breast the Jane of Appledore Was schooner rigged, and in full sail at sea.

He could not whisper with his strong hoa.r.s.e voice, No more than could a horse creep quietly; He laughed to scorn the men that m.u.f.fled close For fear of wind, till all their neck was hid, Like Indian corn wrapped up in long green leaves; He knew no flowers but seaweeds brown and green, He knew no birds but those that followed s.h.i.+ps.

Full well he knew the water-world; he heard A grander music there than we on land, When organ shakes a church; swore he would make The sea his home, though it was always roused By such wild storms as never leave Cape Horn; Happy to hear the tempest grunt and squeal Like pigs heard dying in a slaughterhouse.

A true-born mariner, and this his hope-- His coffin would be what his cradle was, A boat to drown in and be sunk at sea; To drown at sea and lie a dainty corpse Salted and iced in Neptune's larder deep.

This man despised small coasters, fis.h.i.+ng-smacks; He scorned those sailors who at night and morn Can see the coast, when in their little boats They go a six days' voyage and are back Home with their wives for every Sabbath day.

Much did he talk of tankards of old beer, And bottled stuff he drank in other lands, Which was a liquid fire like h.e.l.l to gulp, But Paradise to sip.

And so he talked; Nor did those people listen with more awe To Lazarus--whom they had seen stone dead-- Than did we urchins to that seaman's voice.

He many a tale of wonder told: of where, At Argostoli, Cephalonia's sea Ran over the earth's lip in heavy floods; And then again of how the strange Chinese Conversed much as our homely Blackbirds sing.

He told us how he sailed in one old s.h.i.+p Near that volcano Martinique, whose power Shook like dry leaves the whole Carribean seas; And made the sun set in a sea of fire Which only half was his; and dust was thick On deck, and stones were pelted at the mast.

So, as we walked along, that seaman dropped Into my greedy ears such words that sleep Stood at my pillow half the night perplexed.

He told how isles sprang up and sank again, Between short voyages, to his amaze; How they did come and go, and cheated charts; Told how a crew was cursed when one man killed A bird that perched upon a moving barque; And how the sea's sharp needles, firm and strong, Ripped open the bellies of big, iron s.h.i.+ps; Of mighty icebergs in the Northern seas, That haunt the far horizon like white ghosts, He told of waves that lift a s.h.i.+p so high That birds could pa.s.s from starboard unto port Under her dripping keel.

Oh, it was sweet To hear that seaman tell such wondrous tales: How deep the sea in parts, that drowned men Must go a long way to their graves and sink Day after day, and wander with the tides.

He spake of his own deeds; of how he sailed One summer's night along the Bosphorus, And he--who knew no music like the wash Of waves against a s.h.i.+p, or wind in shrouds-- Heard then the music on that woody sh.o.r.e Of nightingales, and feared to leave the deck, He thought 'twas sailing into Paradise.

To hear these stories all we urchins placed Our pennies in that seaman's ready hand; Until one morn he signed for a long cruise, And sailed away--we never saw him more.

Could such a man sink in the sea unknown?

Nay, he had found a land with something rich, That kept his eyes turned inland for his life.

'A d.a.m.n bad sailor and a landshark too, No good in port or out'--my granddad said.

DAYS TOO SHORT

When primroses are out in Spring, And small, blue violets come between; When merry birds sing on boughs green, And rills, as soon as born, must sing;

When b.u.t.terflies will make side-leaps, As though escaped from Nature's hand Ere perfect quite; and bees will stand Upon their heads in fragrant deeps;

When small clouds are so silvery white Each seems a broken rimmed moon-- When such things are, this world too soon, For me, doth wear the veil of Night.

IN MAY

Yes, I will spend the livelong day With Nature in this month of May; And sit beneath the trees, and share My bread with birds whose homes are there; While cows lie down to eat, and sheep Stand to their necks in gra.s.s so deep; While birds do sing with all their might, As though they felt the earth in flight.

This is the hour I dreamed of, when I sat surrounded by poor men; And thought of how the Arab sat Alone at evening, gazing at The stars that bubbled in clear skies;

And of young dreamers, when their eyes Enjoyed methought a precious boon In the adventures of the Moon Whose light, behind the Clouds' dark bars, Searched for her stolen flocks of stars.

When I, hemmed in by wrecks of men, Thought of some lonely cottage then, Full of sweet books; and miles of sea, With pa.s.sing s.h.i.+ps, in front of me; And having, on the other hand, A flowery, green, bird-singing land.

THE HEAP OF RAGS

One night when I went down Thames' side, in London Town, A heap of rags saw I, And sat me down close by.

That thing could shout and bawl, But showed no face at all; When any steamer pa.s.sed And blew a loud shrill blast, That heap of rags would sit And make a sound like it; When struck the clock's deep bell, It made those peals as well.

When winds did moan around, It mocked them with that sound; When all was quiet, it Fell into a strange fit; Would sigh, and moan and roar, It laughed, and blessed, and swore.

Yet that poor thing, I know, Had neither friend nor foe; Its blessing or its curse Made no one better or worse.

I left it in that place-- The thing that showed no face, Was it a man that had Suffered till he went mad?

So many showers and not One rainbow in the lot; Too many bitter fears To make a pearl from tears.

THE KINGFISHER

It was the Rainbow gave thee birth, And left thee all her lovely hues; And, as her mother's name was Tears, So runs it in thy blood to choose For haunts the lonely pools, and keep In company with trees that weep.

Go you and, with such glorious hues, Live with proud Peac.o.c.ks in green parks; On lawns as smooth as s.h.i.+ning gla.s.s, Let every feather show its marks; Get thee on boughs and clap thy wings Before the windows of proud kings.

Nay, lovely Bird, thou art not vain; Thou hast no proud, ambitious mind; I also love a quiet place That's green, away from all mankind; A lonely pool, and let a tree Sigh with her bosom over me.

WALTER DE LA MARE

ARABIA

Far are the shades of Arabia, Where the Princes ride at noon, 'Mid the verdurous vales and thickets, Under the ghost of the moon; And so dark is that vaulted purple Flowers in the forest rise And toss into blossom 'gainst the phantom stars Pale in the noonday skies.

Sweet is the music of Arabia In my heart, when out of dreams I still in the thin clear mirk of dawn Descry her gliding streams; Hear her strange lutes on the green banks Ring loud with the grief and delight Of the dim-silked, dark-haired Musicians In the brooding silence of night.