 | The poems of Richard Henry Stoddard |  |
[By the margent of the sea]
By the margent of the sea
I would build myself a home,
Where the mighty waters be,
On the edges of their foam.
Ribs of sands should be the mounds
In my grounds;
My grasses should be ocean weeds,
Strung with pulpy beads;
And my blossoms should be shells,
Bleaching white,
Washed from ocean's deepest cells
By the billows morn and night.
Morn and night—in both their light,
Up and down the paven sand,
I would tramp, while Day's great lamp
Rose or set, on sea and land,
Through a sea of vapors dark
Glimmering like a burning bark,
Drifting o'er its yawning tomb
With a red and lurid gloom.
Seldom should the morning's gold
On the waters be unrolled,
Or the troubled queen of night
Lift her misty veil of light.
Neither wholly dark, nor bright,
Gray by day, and gray by night—
That's the light, the sky for me,
By the margent of the sea.
I would build myself a home,
Where the mighty waters be,
On the edges of their foam.
Ribs of sands should be the mounds
In my grounds;
109
Strung with pulpy beads;
And my blossoms should be shells,
Bleaching white,
Washed from ocean's deepest cells
By the billows morn and night.
Morn and night—in both their light,
Up and down the paven sand,
I would tramp, while Day's great lamp
Rose or set, on sea and land,
Through a sea of vapors dark
Glimmering like a burning bark,
Drifting o'er its yawning tomb
With a red and lurid gloom.
Seldom should the morning's gold
On the waters be unrolled,
Or the troubled queen of night
Lift her misty veil of light.
Neither wholly dark, nor bright,
Gray by day, and gray by night—
That's the light, the sky for me,
By the margent of the sea.
From my window, when I rose
In the morning, I would mark
The gray sea in its endless throes,
And many a bark.
As I watched the pallid sails,
Bearing naught to me or mine,
I would conjure up the gales
Soon to draggle them in brine:
Then, my cloak about my face,
Up and down the sands would pace,
Making footprints for the spray
To wash away.
Waves might break along the shore,
And thunders roar;
I should only hear aghast
The solemn moaning of the Past.
And if storms should come, and rain
Pour in torrents down the sky,
What care I?
What cares any one in pain?
Are not tears still wrung from me,
Woe is me, and all in vain,
Falling faster than the rain
In the sea?
But it would be over then,
And I would no longer weep:
Grief is for the sea of men,
By God's ocean it must sleep.
Happy, happy would I be
By the margent of the sea.
In the morning, I would mark
The gray sea in its endless throes,
And many a bark.
As I watched the pallid sails,
Bearing naught to me or mine,
I would conjure up the gales
Soon to draggle them in brine:
Then, my cloak about my face,
Up and down the sands would pace,
Making footprints for the spray
To wash away.
110
And thunders roar;
I should only hear aghast
The solemn moaning of the Past.
And if storms should come, and rain
Pour in torrents down the sky,
What care I?
What cares any one in pain?
Are not tears still wrung from me,
Woe is me, and all in vain,
Falling faster than the rain
In the sea?
But it would be over then,
And I would no longer weep:
Grief is for the sea of men,
By God's ocean it must sleep.
Happy, happy would I be
By the margent of the sea.
Up and down the barren beaches,
Round the ragged belts of land,
In along the curving reaches,
Out along the horns of sand,
Over the ledges of the rocks,
Where the surges comb their locks,
And their wreathèd buds remain,
Not to bloom again;
Many a league and hour I stray,
And watch the madness of the spray,
The caverns in its wall;
Its flame-like currents mounting slow,
Its rounding crest of frothy snow,
Its crumbling fall;
The climbing sun in light betrayed
By a spot of thinnest shade;
The tossing foam, the wandering plain
Of the melancholy main;
The sea-mew darting everywhere,
Now on the water, and now in the air,
Vexing me with frantic scream,
Like a phantom in a dream—
In dreams I do behold them all,
Mixed with wave and wind;
But hardly know, so strange they seem,
Whether I behold them there,
Or the sorrow and despair
In my mind,
Wandering where its tortures be,
By the margent of the sea.
Round the ragged belts of land,
In along the curving reaches,
Out along the horns of sand,
Over the ledges of the rocks,
Where the surges comb their locks,
And their wreathèd buds remain,
Not to bloom again;
Many a league and hour I stray,
And watch the madness of the spray,
The caverns in its wall;
Its flame-like currents mounting slow,
Its rounding crest of frothy snow,
Its crumbling fall;
The climbing sun in light betrayed
By a spot of thinnest shade;
111
Of the melancholy main;
The sea-mew darting everywhere,
Now on the water, and now in the air,
Vexing me with frantic scream,
Like a phantom in a dream—
In dreams I do behold them all,
Mixed with wave and wind;
But hardly know, so strange they seem,
Whether I behold them there,
Or the sorrow and despair
In my mind,
Wandering where its tortures be,
By the margent of the sea.
| The poems of Richard Henry Stoddard | |