 | The poems of Thomas Bailey Aldrich |  |
SEADRIFT
See where she stands, on the wet sea-sands,
Looking across the water:
Wild is the night, but wilder still
The face of the fisher's daughter.
Looking across the water:
Wild is the night, but wilder still
The face of the fisher's daughter.
What does she there, in the lightning's glare,
What does she there, I wonder?
What dread demon drags her forth
In the night and wind and thunder?
What does she there, I wonder?
What dread demon drags her forth
In the night and wind and thunder?
Is it the ghost that haunts this coast?—
The cruel waves mount higher,
And the beacon pierces the stormy dark
With its javelin of fire.
The cruel waves mount higher,
And the beacon pierces the stormy dark
With its javelin of fire.
Beyond the light of the beacon bright
A merchantman is tacking;
The hoarse wind whistling through the shrouds,
And the brittle topmasts cracking.
A merchantman is tacking;
The hoarse wind whistling through the shrouds,
And the brittle topmasts cracking.
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The sea it moans over dead men's bones,
The sea turns white in anger;
The curlews sweep through the resonant air
With a warning cry of danger.
The sea turns white in anger;
The curlews sweep through the resonant air
With a warning cry of danger.
The star-fish clings to the sea-weed's rings
In a vague, dumb sense of peril;
And the spray, with its phantom-fingers, grasps
At the mullein dry and sterile.
In a vague, dumb sense of peril;
And the spray, with its phantom-fingers, grasps
At the mullein dry and sterile.
Oh, who is she that stands by the sea,
In the lightning's glare, undaunted?—
Seems this now like the coast of hell
By one white spirit haunted!
In the lightning's glare, undaunted?—
Seems this now like the coast of hell
By one white spirit haunted!
The night drags by; and the breakers die
Along the ragged ledges;
The robin stirs in his drenchèd nest,
The wild-rose droops on the hedges.
Along the ragged ledges;
The robin stirs in his drenchèd nest,
The wild-rose droops on the hedges.
In shimmering lines, through the dripping pines,
The stealthy morn advances;
And the heavy sea-fog straggles back
Before those bristling lances.
The stealthy morn advances;
And the heavy sea-fog straggles back
Before those bristling lances.
Still she stands on the wet sea-sands;
The morning breaks above her,
And the corpse of a sailor gleams on the rocks—
What if it were her lover?
The morning breaks above her,
And the corpse of a sailor gleams on the rocks—
What if it were her lover?
| The poems of Thomas Bailey Aldrich | |