SONGS OF FANCY: I
YOUR caravel was loosely moored,
—So lightly moored, so slightly moored,—
It ranged with every passing swell,
Your gipsy-hearted caravel
That only silken ropes secured.
I dreamt that you might slip away,
—Might slide away, might glide away,—
When I was absent, on a breeze
Enticing you to other seas
With whispers of a lovelier day.
The sirens underneath the stars,
—The flaunting stars, the haunting stars,—
Would cast adrift your mooring-rope
(Farewell, my heart! farewell, my hope!)
And stretch the sails upon your spars,
And you would sail before the wind,
—Elusive wind, delusive wind,—
All radiant on your moonlit deck,
And not a moment would you reck
Of me whom you had left behind.
You’d come to legendary coasts,
To nameless coasts, to tameless coasts,
And hear of unimagined things:
The exploits of vainglorious kings,
Their fabled pride, and braggart boasts;
Iris you’d meet, and Mercury,
Sweet Mercury, fleet Mercury;
You’d see the constellations change,
You’d pass the magnet mountain-range
That draws a ship to mystery;
You’d see, on black basaltic rocks,
On jaggèd rocks, on craggèd rocks,
The lonely Polyphemus stand,
The scourge and terror of the land,
Amongst his decimated flocks.
You’d turn from thence; a rainbow arc,
A magic arc, a tragic arc,
That spanned the sky from east to west
Might lure you on a dreamer’s quest
And close for ever on your barque.
Ah God! perhaps this very night,
This hated night, this fated night,
You heard the breeze, the sirens’ spell....
I faint, I look; your caravel
In harbour still lies gold and white.