Part 20 (1/2)

How long the gale had blown he could not tell, Only the world had changed, his life had died.

A moment now was everlasting h.e.l.l.

Nature an onslaught from the weather side, A withering rush of death, a frost that cried, Shrieked, till he withered at the heart; a hail Plastered his oilskins with an icy mail....

”Up!” yelled the Bosun; ”up and clear the wreck!”

The Dauber followed where he led; below He caught one giddy glimpsing of the deck Filled with white water, as though heaped with snow.

He saw the streamers of the rigging blow Straight out like pennons from the splintered mast, Then, all sense dimmed, all was an icy blast.

Roaring from nether h.e.l.l and filled with ice, Roaring and cras.h.i.+ng on the jerking stage, An utter bridle given to utter vice, Limitless power mad with endless rage Withering the soul; a minute seemed an age.

He clutched and hacked at ropes, at rags of sail, Thinking that comfort was a fairy tale,

Told long ago--long, long ago--long since Heard of in other lives--imagined, dreamed-- There where the basest beggar was a prince.

To him in torment where the tempest screamed, Comfort and warmth and ease no longer seemed Things that a man could know; soul, body, brain, Knew nothing but the wind, the cold, the pain.

THE CHOICE

The Kings go by with jewelled crowns; Their horses gleam, their banners shake, their spears are many.

The sack of many-peopled towns Is all their dream: The way they take Leaves but a ruin in the brake, And, in the furrow that the ploughmen make, A stampless penny; a tale, a dream.

The Merchants reckon up their gold, Their letters come, their s.h.i.+ps arrive, their freights are glories: The profits of their treasures sold They tell and sum; Their foremen drive Their servants, starved to half-alive, Whose labours do but make the earth a hive Of stinking glories; a tale, a dream.

The Priests are singing in their stalls, Their singing lifts, their incense burns, their praying clamours; Yet G.o.d is as the sparrow falls, The ivy drifts; The votive urns Are all left void when Fortune turns, The G.o.d is but a marble for the kerns To break with hammers; a tale, a dream.

O Beauty, let me know again The green earth cold, the April rain, the quiet waters figuring sky, The one star risen.

So shall I pa.s.s into the feast Not touched by King, Merchant, or Priest; Know the red spirit of the beast, Be the green grain; Escape from prison.

SONNET[18]

Is there a great green commonwealth of Thought Which ranks the yearly pageant, and decides How Summer's royal progress shall be wrought, By secret stir which in each plant abides?

Does rocking daffodil consent that she, The snowdrop of wet winters, shall be first?

Does spotted cowslip with the gra.s.s agree To hold her pride before the rattle burst?

And in the hedge what quick agreement goes, When hawthorn blossoms redden to decay, That Summer's pride shall come, the Summer's rose, Before the flower be on the bramble spray?

Or is it, as with us, unresting strife, And each consent a lucky gasp for life?

FOOTNOTES:

[17] From _The Story of a Round-House_ by John Masefield. Copyright, 1913, by The Macmillan Company. Reprinted by permission of the publishers.

[18] From _Good Friday and Other Poems_ by John Masefield. Copyright, 1916, by The Macmillan Company. Reprinted by permission of the publishers.

_Lord Dunsany_