 | The poetical works of Lucy Larcom |  |
THE SEA'S BONDMAID.
I do not love the Sea;
And yet he draweth me,
As the moon draws the unwilling tide—
Restless forever—to his side.
And yet he draweth me,
As the moon draws the unwilling tide—
Restless forever—to his side.
All night awake I lie,
And hear him toss and sigh
In vague, unreasoning distress
At his own homeless loneliness.
And hear him toss and sigh
In vague, unreasoning distress
At his own homeless loneliness.
I do not seek the Sea;
And yet he followeth me
With that weird, haunting voice of his,
Through the sweet inland silences.
And yet he followeth me
With that weird, haunting voice of his,
Through the sweet inland silences.
I love the west wind's breath,
That softly wandereth
Out of the forest-fragrance deep
A tryst of peace with me to keep.
That softly wandereth
Out of the forest-fragrance deep
A tryst of peace with me to keep.
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Release me, sullen Sea!
I would be free of thee,
Far hidden among mountains green,
That laughing rivulets run between.
I would be free of thee,
Far hidden among mountains green,
That laughing rivulets run between.
In vain! Thy monotone
Is as my own heart's moan:
Thy tides are pulses in my breast;
And thy unrest must be my rest!
Is as my own heart's moan:
Thy tides are pulses in my breast;
And thy unrest must be my rest!
And yet the Ocean weds the shore, sometimes,
With perfect interchange of light and joy;
Gently caressing the green fields, that smile
To meet him, putting on their freshest robes;
Land-birds to sea-birds singing; pines and oaks
Hastening down to unite the melodies
Of bough and billow: such are the blue sea
And the bright coast that meet within the curves
You follow, loitering around Kettle Cove
And Eagle Head, and past the Singing Sands,
And by the sea-fringed Farms of Beverly.
With perfect interchange of light and joy;
Gently caressing the green fields, that smile
To meet him, putting on their freshest robes;
Land-birds to sea-birds singing; pines and oaks
Hastening down to unite the melodies
Of bough and billow: such are the blue sea
And the bright coast that meet within the curves
You follow, loitering around Kettle Cove
And Eagle Head, and past the Singing Sands,
And by the sea-fringed Farms of Beverly.
The loveliest scenery of that lovely town
Lay on its ocean border; miles of shore,
Verdant out to the verge of beach or cliff,
With varying tints of gardens, orchards, hills,
Evergreen forests, intermixed with growth
Of the light maple and the glimmering birch;
And quaint old homesteads, whose colonial date
Was hid far back among the Indian wars:
All washed by landlocked waters drowsily,
As by faint, lapsing, half-dreamed memories.
Lay on its ocean border; miles of shore,
Verdant out to the verge of beach or cliff,
With varying tints of gardens, orchards, hills,
Evergreen forests, intermixed with growth
Of the light maple and the glimmering birch;
And quaint old homesteads, whose colonial date
Was hid far back among the Indian wars:
All washed by landlocked waters drowsily,
As by faint, lapsing, half-dreamed memories.
Beauty must still have contrast; yonder, see
Two tawny islands, floundering like whales
As near land as they dare—The Miseries—
The Great and Little Misery, made two
By a swift strait the cattle ford at ebb,
Ruminating as they wade: mere lumps of earth;
The least one takes the sea's brunt—buttresses
And bastions worn by the besieging East.
Once, landing on this Little Misery,
I saw it white with everlasting-flowers—
A snowy cloud upon the blue expanse,
Like those that float in heaven: I told myself
That other miseries might root amaranth.
Two tawny islands, floundering like whales
As near land as they dare—The Miseries—
The Great and Little Misery, made two
By a swift strait the cattle ford at ebb,
Ruminating as they wade: mere lumps of earth;
The least one takes the sea's brunt—buttresses
And bastions worn by the besieging East.
Once, landing on this Little Misery,
I saw it white with everlasting-flowers—
A snowy cloud upon the blue expanse,
Like those that float in heaven: I told myself
That other miseries might root amaranth.
| The poetical works of Lucy Larcom | |