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 | The Collected Poems of Philip Bourke Marston |  |
II. ABOUT THIS LAND MOVES MANY A SAD-EYED GHOST.
About this land moves many a sad-eyed ghost;
And there is wail of weeping all night long,
And sounds by day of melancholy song:
Weird is the land, and beautiful, almost;
But wrecks of mighty ships strew thick the coast,
Though now the sea looks innocent of wrong,
And low, soft waves the deep sea-caverns throng,
Where sirens sing, and Death waits at his post.
And there is wail of weeping all night long,
And sounds by day of melancholy song:
Weird is the land, and beautiful, almost;
But wrecks of mighty ships strew thick the coast,
Though now the sea looks innocent of wrong,
And low, soft waves the deep sea-caverns throng,
Where sirens sing, and Death waits at his post.
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Rise, rise, my soul, that we may strive with fate,
And flee the baneful beauty which delays
Us through warm, weeping nights and hectic days;
Spread sail and steer where fresh life may await.
But, ah, what words sigh down these trackless ways,—
What words but these: “Too late — Too late — Too late”?
And flee the baneful beauty which delays
Us through warm, weeping nights and hectic days;
Spread sail and steer where fresh life may await.
But, ah, what words sigh down these trackless ways,—
What words but these: “Too late — Too late — Too late”?
| The Collected Poems of Philip Bourke Marston | |