 | The poems of Trumbull Stickney |  |
262
[XII
'T was yet an hour to dawn. Revengeful storm]
'T was yet an hour to dawn. Revengeful storm
Tortured the Ægean air. The sea was high,
And things of mist and water without form
Rose, ran, were lost. The darkness swelled with cry.
Tortured the Ægean air. The sea was high,
And things of mist and water without form
Rose, ran, were lost. The darkness swelled with cry.
Then greatly heard, 'mid all that night's alarms
Most hideous, was a sound of cities torn,
Of glory strangled in an ocean's arms,
Of death. The tempest sped;—and it was morn.
Most hideous, was a sound of cities torn,
Of glory strangled in an ocean's arms,
Of death. The tempest sped;—and it was morn.
From high Oliaros looking forth alone,
The sculptor saw a sea with isles impearled,—
But not yon island of the golden stone:
Paros was sunk. A calm lay on the world.
The sculptor saw a sea with isles impearled,—
But not yon island of the golden stone:
Paros was sunk. A calm lay on the world.
His frighted lip grew calm. He looked around.
Never shone day more marvellous.—But he
Swore to his heart an oath that had no sound,
Darkly, and cast his chisel to the sea.
Never shone day more marvellous.—But he
Swore to his heart an oath that had no sound,
Darkly, and cast his chisel to the sea.
[1895]
| The poems of Trumbull Stickney | |