THE SAILOR
Her brother was a rat-faced Roman,
Lean, puckered, tight-skinned from the sea,
Commander in the Canace,
Able to drive a horse, or ship,
Or crew of men, without a whip
By will, as long as they could go.
His face would wrinkle, row on row,
From mouth to hair-roots when he laught
He looked ahead as though his craft
Were with him still, in dangerous channels.
He and Hugh Colway tossed their flannels
Into the pony-cart and mounted.
Six foiled attempts the watchers counted,
The horses being bickering things,
That so much scarlet made like kings,
Such sidling and such pawing and shifting.