Part 6 (1/2)

Broken, that none shall ever mend; Loosened, that none shall ever tie.

O the wind and the wind, will it never end?

O the sweeping past of the ruined sky!

THE DEPARTURE

I

I sat beside the gla.s.sy evening sea, One foot upon the thin horn of my lyre, And all its strings of laughter and desire Crushed in the rank wet gra.s.ses heedlessly; Nor did my dull eyes care to question how The boat close by had spread its saffron sails, Nor what might mean the coffers and the bales, And streaks of new wine on the gilded prow.

Neither was wonder in me when I saw Fair women step therein, though they were fair Even to adoration and to awe, And in the gracious fillets of their hair Were blossoms from a garden I had known, Sweet mornings ere the apple buds were blown.

II

One gazed steadfast into the dying west With lips apart to greet the evening star; And one with eyes that caught the strife and jar Of the sea's heart, followed the sunward breast Of a lone gull; from a slow harp one drew Blind music like a laugh or like a wail; And in the uncertain shadow of the sail One wove a crown of berries and of yew.

Yet even as I said with dull desire, ”All these were mine, and one was mine indeed,”

The smoky music burst into a fire, And I was left alone in my great need, One foot upon the thin horn of my lyre And all its strings crushed in the dripping weed.

FADED PICTURES

Only two patient eyes to stare Out of the canvas. All the rest-- The warm green gown, the small hands pressed Light in the lap, the braided hair

That must have made the sweet low brow So earnest, centuries ago, When some one saw it change and glow-- All faded! Just the eyes burn now.

I dare say people pa.s.s and pa.s.s Before the blistered little frame, And dingy work without a name Stuck in behind its square of gla.s.s.

But I, well, I left Raphael Just to come drink these eyes of hers, To think away the stains and blurs And make all new again and well.

Only, for tears my head will bow, Because there on my heart's last wall, Scarce one tint left to tell it all, A picture keeps its eyes, somehow.

A GREY DAY

Grey drizzling mists the moorlands drape, Rain whitens the dead sea, From headland dim to sullen cape Grey sails creep wearily.

I know not how that merchantman Has found the heart; but 't is her plan Seaward her endless course to shape.

Unreal as insects that appall A drunkard's peevish brain, O'er the grey deep the dories crawl, Four-legged, with rowers twain: Midgets and minims of the earth, Across old ocean's vasty girth Toiling--heroic, comical!

I wonder how that merchant's crew Have ever found the will!

I wonder what the fishers do To keep them toiling still!