 | The Complete Poetical Works of Robert Buchanan |  |
SEA-WASH.
Wherefore so cold, O Day,
That gleamest far away
O'er the dim line where mingle heaven and ocean,
While fishing-boats lie netted in the gray,
And still smooth waves break in their shoreward motion—
Wherefore so cold, so cold?
O say, dost thou behold
A Face o'er which the rock-weed droopeth sobbing,
A Face just stirred within a sea-cave old
By the green water's throbbing?
That gleamest far away
O'er the dim line where mingle heaven and ocean,
While fishing-boats lie netted in the gray,
And still smooth waves break in their shoreward motion—
Wherefore so cold, so cold?
O say, dost thou behold
A Face o'er which the rock-weed droopeth sobbing,
A Face just stirred within a sea-cave old
By the green water's throbbing?
Wherefore, O Fisherman,
So full of care and wan,
This weary, weary morning shoreward flying
While stooping downward, darkly thou dost scan
That which below thee in thy boat is lying?
Wherefore so full of care!
What dost thou shoreward bear
Caught in thy net's moist meshes, as a token?
Ah! can it be the ring of golden hair
Whereby my heart is broken?
So full of care and wan,
This weary, weary morning shoreward flying
While stooping downward, darkly thou dost scan
That which below thee in thy boat is lying?
Wherefore so full of care!
What dost thou shoreward bear
Caught in thy net's moist meshes, as a token?
Ah! can it be the ring of golden hair
Whereby my heart is broken?
Wherefore so still, O Sea?
That washest wearilie
Under the lamp lit in the fisher's dwelling,
Holding the secret of thy deeps from me,
Whose heart would break so sharply at the telling?
Wherefore so still, so still?
Say, in thy sea-cave chill
Floats she forlorn with foam-bells round her breaking,
While the wet Fisher lands and climbs the hill
To hungry babes awaking?
That washest wearilie
Under the lamp lit in the fisher's dwelling,
Holding the secret of thy deeps from me,
Whose heart would break so sharply at the telling?
Wherefore so still, so still?
Say, in thy sea-cave chill
Floats she forlorn with foam-bells round her breaking,
While the wet Fisher lands and climbs the hill
To hungry babes awaking?
| The Complete Poetical Works of Robert Buchanan | |