 | Poems of Charles Warren Stoddard . |  |
136
DRIFTING
A lark's song rippled in the air,
With liquid trill that smote the dawn,
He hastened down the dewy lawn
And found the morning breezes fair;
With liquid trill that smote the dawn,
He hastened down the dewy lawn
And found the morning breezes fair;
And half the anchor-cable in,
And half the sails were loosed, and full
Of salty winds; with steady pull
He bade the frothing eddies spin
And half the sails were loosed, and full
Of salty winds; with steady pull
He bade the frothing eddies spin
And whirl about his dripping oar,
As on he sped and joined the bark;
Then from the deck he leaned to mark
The wondrous beauty of the shore.
As on he sped and joined the bark;
Then from the deck he leaned to mark
The wondrous beauty of the shore.
They seemed as falling scales, his tears,
From blinded eyes, that would not see
How comfort in that home could be,
Though comfort kept him all his years.
From blinded eyes, that would not see
How comfort in that home could be,
Though comfort kept him all his years.
137
High on the yard a sailor sang:
“O! dusky love beyond the sea;
O! dusky love that longs for me”—
“And thee,” the mocking echoes rang.
“O! dusky love beyond the sea;
O! dusky love that longs for me”—
“And thee,” the mocking echoes rang.
“There is a glory in the gale—
An idle dream will suit the calm,
And talk of leafy thatch and palm—
Shall fill the watch with song and tale.
An idle dream will suit the calm,
And talk of leafy thatch and palm—
Shall fill the watch with song and tale.
“Lo! yonder is the star that guides
The mariner; we lift our hands
About the world, in many lands;
For what are winds, and what are tides,
The mariner; we lift our hands
About the world, in many lands;
For what are winds, and what are tides,
“But spirits luring us abroad?
Rise fragrant isles before our eyes—
A pyre for passion's sacrifice,
Where pleasure is our only god!”
Rise fragrant isles before our eyes—
A pyre for passion's sacrifice,
Where pleasure is our only god!”
[OMITTED]
A hundred trilling songs of larks
A hundred blooming dawns may greet,
But who shall stay the wanderer's feet,
And call his spirit from the dark?
A hundred blooming dawns may greet,
But who shall stay the wanderer's feet,
And call his spirit from the dark?
| Poems of Charles Warren Stoddard . | |