A Psalm of
Life
What the heart
of the young man
said to the psalmist
TELL me not, in
mournful numbers,
Life is but an
empty dream!--
For the soul is
dead that slumbers,
And things are
not what they
seem.
Life
is real! Life
is earnest!
And the grave
is not its goal;
Dust thou art,
to dust returnest,
Was not spoken
of the soul.
Not
enjoyment, and
not sorrow,
Is our destined
end or way;
But to act, that
each to-morrow
Find us farther
than to-day.
Art
is long, and Time
is fleeting,
And our hearts,
though stout and
brave,
Still, like muffled
drums, are beating
Funeral marches
to the grave.
In
the world's broad
field of battle,
In the bivouac
of Life,
Be not like dumb,
driven cattle!
Be a hero in the
strife!
Trust
no future, howe'er
pleasant!
Let the dead Past
bury its dead!
Act,--act in the
living present!
Heart within,
and God o'erhead!
Lives
of great men all
remind us
We can make our
lives sublime,
And departing,
leave behind us
Footprints on
the sands of time;
Footprints,
that perhaps another,
Sailing o'er life's
solemn main,
A forlorn and
shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall
take heart again.
Let
us, then, be up
and doing,
With a heart for
any fate;
Still achieving,
still pursuing,
Learn to labor
and to wait.
Brotherhood
THE
crest and crowning
of all good,
Life's final star,
is brotherhood;
For it will bring
again to Earth
Her long-lost
Poesy and Mirth;
Will send new
light on every
face,
A kingly power
upon the race.
And till it come,
we men are slaves,
And travel downward
to the dust of
graves.
Come, clear the
way, then, clear
the way;
Blind creeds and
kings have had
their day;
Break the dead
branches from
the path;
Out Hope is in
the aftermath--
Our hope is in
heroic men
Star-led to build
the world again.
Make way for brotherhood--make
way for Man!
Sea Fever
I
MUST go down to
the seas again,
to the lonely
sea and the sky,
And all I ask
is a tall ship
and a star to
steer her by,
And the wheel's
kick and the wind's
song and the white
sail's shaking,
And a gray mist
on the sea's face,
and a gray dawn
breaking.
I
must go down to
the seas again,
for the call of
the running tide
Is a wild call
and a clear call
that may not be
denied;
And all I ask
is a windy day
with the white
clouds flying,
And the flung
spray and the
blown spume, and
the sea-gulls
crying.
I
must go down to
the seas again,
to the vagrant
gypsy life,
To the gull's
way and the whale's
way, where the
wind's like a
whetted knife;
And all I ask
is a merry yarn
from a laughing
fellow-rover,
And quiet sleep
and a sweet dream
when the long
trick's over.
A Wanderer's
Song
A
WIND'S in the
heart of me, a
fire's in my heels,
I am tired of
brick and stone
and rumbling wagon-wheels;
I hunger for the
sea's edge, the
limit of the land,
Where the wild
old Atlantic is
shouting on the
sand.
Oh
I'll be going,
leaving the noises
of the street,
To where a lifting
foresail-foot
is yanking at
the sheet;
To a windy, tossing
anchorage where
yawls and ketches
ride,
Oh I'l be going,
going, until I
meet the tide.
And
first I'll hear
the sea-wind,
the mewing of
the gulls,
The clucking,
sucking of the
sea about the
rusty hulls,
The songs at the
capstan at the
hooker warping
out,
And then the heart
of me'll know
I'm there or thereabout.
Oh
I am sick of brick
and stone, the
heart of me is
sick,
For windy green,
unquiet sea, the
realm of Moby
Dick;
And I'll be going,
going, from the
roaring of the
wheels,
For a wind's in
the heart of me,
a fire's in my
heels.
The
West Wind
IT'S
a warm wind, the
west wind, full
of birds' cries;
I never hear the
west wind but
tears are in my
eyes.
For it comes from
the west lands,
the old brown
hills.
And April's in
the west wind,
and daffodils.
It's
a fine land, the
west land, for
hearts as tired
as mine,
Apple orchards
blossom there,
and the air's
like wine.
There is cool
green grass there,
where men may
lie at rest,
And the thrushes
are in song there,
fluting from the
nest.
"Will
ye not come home
brother? ye have
been long away,
It's April, and
blossom time,
and white is the
may;
And bright is
the sun brother,
and warm is the
rain,--
Will ye not come
home, brother,
home to us again?
"The
young corn is
green, brother,
where the rabbits
run.
It's blue sky,
and white clouds,
and warm rain
and sun.
It's song to a
man's soul, brother,
fire to a man's
brain,
To hear the wild
bees and see the
merry spring again.
"Larks
are singing in
the west, brother,
above the green
wheat,
So will ye not
come home, brother,
and rest your
tired feet?
I've a balm for
bruised hearts,
brother, sleep
for aching eyes,"
Says the warm
wind, the west
wind, full of
birds' cries.
It's
the white road
westwards is the
road I must tread
To the green grass,
the cool grass,
and rest for heart
and head,
To the violets,
and the warm hearts,
and the thrushes'
song,
In the fine land,
the west land,
the land where
I belong.
Sonnet
FLESH,
I have knocked
at many a dusty
door,
Gone down full
many a midnight
lane,
Probed in old
walls and felt
along the floor,
Pressed in blind
hope the lighted
window-pane,
But useless all,
though sometimes
when the moon
Was full in heaven
and the sea was
full,
Along my body's
alleys came a
tune
Played in the
tavern by the
Beautiful.
Then for an instant
I have felt at
point
To find and seize
her, whosoe'er
she be,
Whether some saint
whose glory doth
anoint
Those whom she
loves, or but
a part of me,
Or something that
the things not
understood
Make for their
uses out of flesh
and blood.
Trade Winds
IN
the harbor, in
the island, in
the Spanish Seas,
Are the tiny white
houses and the
orange trees,
And day-long,
night-long, the
cool and pleasant
breeze
Of the steady
Trade Winds blowing.
There
is the red wine,
the nutty Spanish
ale,
The shuffle of
the dancers, the
old salt's tale,
The squeaking
fiddle, and the
soughing in the
sail
Of the steady
Trade Winds blowing.
And
o' nights there's
fire-flies and
the yellow moon,
And in the ghostly
palm-trees the
sleepy tune
Of the quiet voice
calling me, the
long low croon
Of the steady
Trade Winds blowing.
The Wanderer
ALL
day they loitered
by the resting
ships,
Telling their
beauties over,
taking stock;
At night the verdict
left my messmate's
lips,
"The Wanderer
is the finest
ship in dock."
I
had not seen her,
but a friend,
since drowned,
Drew her, with
painted ports,
low, lovely, lean,
Saying, "The
Wanderer, clipper,
outward bound,
The loveliest
ship my eyes have
ever seen--
"Perhaps
to-morrow you
will see her sail.
She sails at sunrise":
but the morrow
showed
No Wanderer setting
forth for me to
hail;
Far down the stream
men pointed where
she rode,
Rode
the great trackway
to the sea, dim,
dim,
Already gone before
the stars were
gone.
I saw her at the
sea-line's smoky
rim
Grow swiftly vaguer
as they towed
her on.
Soon
even her masts
were hidden in
the haze
Beyond the city;
she was on her
course
To trample billows
for a hundred
days;
That afternoon
the northerner
gathered force,
Blowing
a small snow from
a point of east.
"Oh, fair
for her,"
we said, "to
take her south."
And in our spirits,
as the wind increased,
We saw her there,
beyond the river
mouth,
Setting
her side-lights
in the wildering
dark,
To glint upon
mad water, while
the gale
Roared like a
battle, snapping
like a shark,
And drunken seamen
struggled with
the sail.
While
with sick hearts
her mates put
out of mind
Their little children,
left astern, ashore,
And the gale's
gathering made
the darkness'
blind,
Water and air
one intermingled
roar.
Then
we forgot her,
for the fiddlers
played,
Dancing and singing
held our merry
crew;
The old ship moaned
a little as she
swayed.
It blew all night,
oh, bitter hard
it blew!
So
that at midnight
I was called on
deck
To keep an anchor-watch:
I heard the sea
Roar past in white
procession filled
with wreck;
Intense bright
stars burned frosty
over me,
And
the Greek brig
beside us dipped
and dipped,
White to the muzzle
like a half-tide
rock,
Drowned to the
mainmast with
the seas she shipped;
Her cable-swivels
clanged at every
shock.
And
like a never-dying
force, the wind
Roared till we
shouted with it,
roared until
Its vast virality
of wrath was thinned,
Had beat its fury
breathless and
was still.
By
dawn the gale
had dwindled into
flaw,
A glorious morning
followed: with
my friend
I climbed the
fo'c's'le-head
to see; we saw
The waters hurrying
shoreward without
end.
Haze
blotted out the
river's lowest
reach;
Out of the gloom
the steamers,
passing by,
Called with their
sirens, hooting
their sea-speech;
Out of the dimness
others made reply.
And
as we watched,
there came a rush
of feet
Charging the fo'c's'le
till the hatchway
shook.
Men all about
us thrust their
way, or beat,
Crying, "Wanderer!
Down the river!
Look!"
I
looked with them
towards the dimness;
there
Gleamed like a
spirit striding
out of night,
A full-rigged
ship unutterably
fair,
Her masts like
trees in winter,
frosty-bright.
Foam
trembled at her
bows like wisps
of wool;
She trembled as
she towed. I had
not dreamed
That work of man
could be so beautiful,
In its own presence
and in what it
seemed.
"So,
she is putting
back again,"
I said.
"How white
with frost her
yards are on the
fore."
One of the men
about me answer
made,
"That is
not frost, but
all her sails
are tore,
"Torn
into tatters,
youngster, in
the gale;
Her best foul-weather
suit gone."
It was true,
Her masts were
white with rags
of tattered sail
Many as gannets
when the fish
are due.
Beauty
in desolation
was her pride,
Her crowned array
a glory that had
been;
She faltered tow'rds
us like a swan
that died,
But altogether
ruined she was
still a queen.
"Put
back with all
her sails gone,"
went the word;
Then, from her
signals flying,
rumor ran,
"The sea
that stove her
boats in killed
her third;
She has been gutted
and has lost a
man."
So,
as though stepping
to a funeral march,
She passed defeated
homewards whence
she came,
Ragged with tattered
canvas white as
starch,
A wild bird that
misfortune had
made tame.
She
was refitted soon:
another took
The dead man's
office; then the
singers hove
Her capstan till
the snapping hawsers
shook;
Out, with a bubble
at her bows, she
drove.
Again
they towed her
seawards, and
again
We, watching,
praised her beauty,
praised her trim,
Saw her fair house-flag
flutter at the
main,
And slowly saunter
seawards, dwindling
dim;
And
wished her well,
and wondered,
as she died,
How, when her
canvas had been
sheeted home,
Her quivering
length would sweep
into her stride,
Making the greenness
milky with her
foam.
But
when we rose next
morning, we discerned
Her beauty once
again a shattered
thing;
Towing to dock
the Wanderer returned,
A wounded sea-bird
with a broken
wing.
A
spar was gone,
her rigging's
disarray
Told of a worse
disaster than
the last;
Like draggled
hair dishevelled
hung the stay,
Drooping and beating
on the broken
mast.
Half-mast
upon her flagstaff
hung her flag;
Word went among
us how the broken
spar
Had gored her
captain like an
angry stag,
And killed her
mate a half-day
from the bar.
She
passed to dock
along the top
of flood.
An old man near
me shook his head
and swore:
"Like a bad
woman, she has
tasted blood--
There'll be no
trusting in her
any more."
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
bloody act her
beauty planned,
What evil lurked
behind the thing
we saw,
What strength
there was 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
shipping as they
towed her by.
She
passed 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
poop.
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 one who having
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
passed 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 passing
Time fear passes
too;
That terror passed,
the sailors' hearts
grew bold.
We learned in
time that she
had found a crew
And was bound
out 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 ship appeared
among the haze,
We thought, "The
Wanderer back
again"; but
no,
No Wanderer showed
for many, many
days,
Her passing lights
made other waters
glow.
But
we would oft 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,
Passed into ships
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 ships,
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 clouds upheave.
Then
the wrack tattered
and the stars
appeared,
Millions of stars
that seemed to
speak in fire;
A byre cock 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 pass
Beyond their twinkling
to the source,
and know
The glory pushing
in the blade of
grass,
That hidden soul
which makes the
flowers grow.
That
soul was there
apparent, not
revealed,
Unearthly meanings
covered every
tree,
That wet grass
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 loud 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 shore:
Beyond the hedgerow
I shall see the
sea."
And
on the instant
from beyond away
The long familiar
sound, a ship'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 tranquill
town,
With lapsing waters
glimmering as
they grew.
And
near me in the
road the shipping
swung,
So stately and
so still in such
a great peace
That like to drooping
crests their colors
hung,
Only their shadows
trembled without
cease.
I
did but glance
upon these anchored
ships.
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
anchored ships
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 sing;
Life's battle
is a conquest
for the strong;
The meaning shows
in the defeated
thing.
A
Creed
I
HOLD that when
a person dies
His soul returns
again to earth;
Arrayed in some
new flesh-disguise
Another mother
gives him birth.
With sturdier
limbs and brighter
brain
The old soul takes
the road again.
Such
is my own belief
and trust;
This hand, this
hand that holds
the pen,
Has many a hundred
times been dust
And turned, as
dust, to dust
again;
These eyes of
mine have blinked
and shown
In Thebes, in
Troy, in Babylon.
All
that I rightly
think or do,
Or make, or spoil,
or bless, or blast,
Is curse or blessing
justly due
For sloth or effort
in the past.
My life's a statement
of the sum
Of vice indulged,
or overcome.
I
know that in my
lives to be
My sorry heart
will ache and
burn,
And worship, unavailingly,
The woman whom
I used to spurn,
And shake to see
another have
The love I spurned,
the love she gave.
And
I shall know,
in angry words,
In gibes, and
mocks, and many
a tear,
A carrion flock
of homing-birds,
The gibes and
scorns I uttered
here.
The brave word
that I failed
to speak
Will brand me
dastard on the
cheek.
And
as I wander on
the roads
I shall be helped
and healed and
blessed;
Dear words shall
cheer and be as
goads
To urge to heights
before unguessed.
My road shall
be the road I
made;
All that I gave
shall be repaid.
So
shall I fight,
so shall I tread,
In this long war
beneath the stars;
So shall a glory
wreathe my head,
So shall I faint
and show the scars,
Until this case,
this clogging
mould,
Be smithied all
to kingly gold.
Roadways
ONE
road leads to
London,
One road leads
to Wales,
My road leads
me seawards
To the white dipping
sails.
One
road leads to
the river,
And it goes singing
slow;
My road leads
to shipping,
Where the bronzed
sailors go.
Leads
me, lures me,
calls me
To salt green
tossing sea;
A road without
earth's road-dust
Is the right road
for me.
A
wet road heaving,
shining,
And wild with
seagull's cries,
A mad salt sea-wind
blowing
The salt spray
in my eyes.
My
road calls me,
lures me
West, east, south,
and north;
Most roads lead
men homewards,
My road leads
me forth.
To
add more miles
to the tally
Of grey miles
left behind,
In quest of that
one beauty
God put me here
to find.
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