A STILL-LIFE PICTURE

The sails hang dead, or they lift and flap like a cornfield scarecrow's coat,
And the seabirds swim abreast of us like ducks that play, a-float,
And the sea is all an endless field that heaves and falls a-far
As if the earth were taking breath on some strange, alien star,
For there are miles and miles of weed that tramp around and 'round
Till a fellow's tempted to step out and try if it's the ground.
And, sometimes, when we strike a space that's clear of wild sea-grass
Our faces look up true and smooth as from a looking glass —

HE .

Seest thou two waifs of cloud on the dim blue
Wandering in the melancholy light?
Methinks they seem like spirits bright and true,
Blending their gentle breaths, and born anew,
In the still rapture of this heavenly night!
See! how the flowering stars their path bestrew,
Till the moon turns, and smiles, and looks them through,
And breathes upon them, when with bosoms white
They blend on one another, and unite.
Now they are gone, they vanish from our view.

Sleep on thine eyes, peace in thy breast,
White-limb'd lady, be at rest!
Near the room wherein you lie,
Broods the owl with luminous eye.

Midnight comes; all fair things sleep,
While all dark things vigil keep;
Round thy bed thy scented bower
Foldeth like a lily-flower.

All so still around thee lies,
Peace in thy breast, sleep on thine eyes!
All without is dark as death,
But thy lover wakeneth.

Underneath thy bower I pace,
Star-dew sparkling on my face;
All around me, swift of flight,

Three long years a-sailing, three long years a-whaling,
Kicking through the ice floes, caught in calm or gale,
Lost in flat Sargasso seas, cursing at the prickly heat,
Going months without a sight of another sail.

I've learned to hate the Mate, and I've always cursed the Captain.
I hate the bally Bo'sun, and all the bally crew,—
And, sometimes, in the night-watch, the long and starry night-watch,
Queer thoughts have run wild in my head—
I've even hated you!

You, that have been my shipmate for fifteen years of sailing,

How various their employments, how glorious their enjoyments,
Who dwell all above in bright day;
How sanctified their souls, how sweet each moment rolls,
For they've left their old houses of clay.

The rich tree of life engenders no strife,
But yields a most wond'rous repast;
For they are all invited here, without sin, hell or fear,
So long as eternity lasts.

I do not sing for Maidens. They are roses
 Blowing along the pathway I pursue:
No sweeter things the wondrous world discloses,
 And they are tender as the morning dew.
Blessed be maids and children: day and night
Their holy scent is with me as I write.

I do not sing for School-boys or School-men.
 To give them ease I have no languid theme
When, weary with the wear of book and pen,
 They seek their trim poetic Academe;
Nor can I sing them amorous ditties, bred
Of too much Ovid on an empty head.

I do not sing aloud in measured tone

On Inisheer, on Inisheer,
In the Spring-tide of the year,
You sought me, in your eyes love's rapture burning;
And for the words you said,
Above my drooping head,
My heart flew to you on the wings of yearning.

On Inisheer, on Inisheer,
I had never known a fear,
Nor a sorrow, nor a sigh to mar my laughter;
Until that saddest day,
When my true love sailed away,
And the sun grew dim, and darkness followed after.

Why did you go, oh love,

To-night we drink but a sorrowful cup. .
Hush! silence! and fill your glasses up.
Christ be with us! Hold out and say:
" Here's to the Boy that died this day!"

Wasn't he bold as the boldest here?
Red coat or black did he ever fear?
With the bite and the drop, too, ever free?
He died like a man. ... I was there to see!

The gallows was black, our cheeks were white
All underneath in the morning light;
The bell ceased tolling swift as thought,
And out the murdered Boy was brought.

There he stood in the daylight dim,

Because you brought the hills to me —
The dear hills I had never seen,
All sweet with heather down the braes,
And golden gorse between —

Where sings the blackbird in the dawn,
And where the blue lake-water stirs,
And where the slender wind-blown sedge
Shakes all its silver spurs.

Because you loved the country ways,
Whereon your happy feet were set.
Nor was the calmness of your days.
Stirred by one vexed regret.

But in your every homely word
I heard my unknown kinsfolk call
My roving heart to find its nest

I would build myself a nest, a little downy nest,
And a warbler of the woodland I would wed —
Oh, not the blackbird bold, nor the thrush with voice so cold,
But the Yorlin with the yellow on his head.

I would keep him safe and warm, I would screen him from the storm;
Together we would greet the golden sun —
We would mount the greening stair of the slender larch and fir,
And sing our love until the day be done.