Volume Iii Part 62 (2/2)

OUTWARD

Wither away, O Sailor! say?

Under the night, under the day, Yearning sail and flying spray Out of the black into the blue, Where are the great Winds bearing you?

Never port shall lift for me Into the sky, out of the sea!

Into the blue or into the black, Onward, outward, never back!

Something mighty and weird and dim Calls me under the ocean rim!

Sailor under sun and moon, 'Tis the ocean's fatal rune.

Under yon far rim of sky Twice ten thousand others lie.

Love is sweet and home is fair, And your mother calls you there.

Onward, outward I must go Where the mighty currents flow.

Home is anywhere for me On this purple-tented sea.

Star and Wind and Sun my brothers, Ocean one of many mothers.

Onward under sun and star Where the weird adventures are!

Never port shall lift for me-- I am Wind and Sky and Sea!

John G. Neihardt [1881-

A Pa.s.sER-BY

Whither, O splendid s.h.i.+p, thy white sails crowding, Leaning across the bosom of the urgent West, That fearest nor sea rising, nor sky clouding, Whither away, fair rover, and what thy quest?

Ah! soon, when Winter has all our vales oppressed, When skies are cold and misty, and hail is hurling, Wilt thou glide on the blue Pacific, or rest In a summer haven asleep, thy white sails furling.

I there before thee, in the country that well thou knowest, Already arrived, am inhaling the odorous air: I watch thee enter unerringly where thou goest, And anchor queen of the strange s.h.i.+pping there, Thy sails for awnings spread, thy masts bare: Nor is aught from the foaming reef to the snow-capped grandest Peak, that is over the feathery palms, more fair Than thou, so upright, so stately and still thou standest.

And yet, O splendid s.h.i.+p, unhailed and nameless, I know not if, aiming a fancy, I rightly divine That thou hast a purpose joyful, a courage blameless, Thy port a.s.sured in a happier land than mine.

But for all I have given thee, beauty enough is thine, As thou, aslant with trim tackle and shrouding, From the proud nostril curve of a prow's line In the offing scatterest foam, thy white sails crowding.

Robert Bridges [1844-1930]

OFF RIVIERE DU LOUP

O s.h.i.+p incoming from the sea With all your cloudy tower of sail, Das.h.i.+ng the water to the lee, And leaning grandly to the gale,

The sunset pageant in the west Has filled your canvas curves with rose, And jeweled every toppling crest That crashes into silver snows!

You know the joy of coming home, After long leagues to France or Spain You feel the clear Canadian foam And the gulf water heave again.

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