Her warp is of the green, her woof the gold,
The spinning world her wheel.
THE LOST ONES
Somewhere is music from the linnets' bills,
And thro' the sunny flowers the bee-wings drone,
And white bells of convolvulus on hills
Of quiet May make silent ringing, blown
Hither and thither by the wind of showers,
And somewhere all the wandering birds have flown;
And the brown breath of Autumn chills the flowers.
But where are all the loves of long ago?
O little twilight ship blown up the tide,
Where are the faces laughing in the glow
Of morning years, the lost ones scattered wide.
Give me your hand, O brother, let us go
Crying about the dark for those who died.
* * * * *
JOHN MASEFIELD
THE 'WANDERER'
All day they loitered by the resting ships,
Telling their beauties over, taking stock;
At night the verdict left my messmates' 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.
Pages:
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124