Classic Poem

They tell of perils who come over seas,
Of the strange habit of the Portuguese,
Of idols many limbed, of gilded cars,
Of the great lustre of the Southern stars;
Till, one by one, the listeners grow intent,
And even the serving man, who came and went,
Stops short, and finds a pretext to draw nigher.
Then, in the language of his great-grandsire,
The sailor tells the tale for which they thirst,
The ancient tale brought back perhaps at first
By Captain Theseus in his argosy,
Nursed under every sky, on every sea,
Salt with all winds, and scorched with every sun,

Tattered and patched in many an age agone.
The sailor's eye grows bluer as he speaks,
And the crisp beard upon his copper cheeks
Glints in the fickle light like Indian gold.
The clock has ceased to tick. The tale is told—
Whereat the inland men did hugely gape
With wonderment. Then while the dainty ape
Chatters assent and stretches a cool paw
In indiscriminate friendship, the macaw
That saw the landing of Pissaro, screams
In shrill corroboration—as it seems.
They tell strange stories who come over seas,
Those tanned sea-captains, of gigantic trees,
Of pagan temples, mighty monuments,
Of curious speech and fair habiliments;
And sometimes they will tell, when nights are long,
Of wine in foreign lands and foreign song.