The Face in the Stream

The sunburnt face in the willow shade To the face in the water-mirror said, “O deep mysterious face in the stream, Art thou myself or am I thy dream?” And the face deep down in the water’s side To the face in the upper air replied, “I am thy dream, them poor worn face, And this is thy heart’s abiding place. “Too much in the world, come back and be Once more my dream-fellow with me, “In the far-off untarnished years Before thy furrows were washed with tears, “Or ever thy serious creature eyes Were aged with a mist of memories. “Hast thou forgotten the long ago In the garden where I used to flow, “Among the hills, with the maple tree And the roses blowing over me?— “I who am now but a wraith of this river, Forsaken of thee forever and ever, “Who then was thine image fair, forecast In the heart of the water rimpling past. “Out in the wide of the summer zone I lulled and allured thee apart and alone, “The azure gleam and the golden croon And the grass with the flaky roses strewn. “There you would lie and lean above me, The more you lingered the more to love me, “Till I became, as the year grew old, Thy fairest day-dream’s fashion and mould, “Deep in the water twilight there, Smiling, elusive, wonderful, fair, “The beautiful visage of thy clear soul Set in eternity’s limpid shoal, “Thy spirit’s countenance, the trace Of dawning God in the human face. “And when yellow leaves came down Through the silent mornings one by one “To the frosty meadow, as they fell Thy pondering heart said, ‘All is well; “‘Aye, all is best, for I stake my life Beyond the boundaries of strife,’ “And then thy feet returned no more,— While years went over the garden floor, “With frost and maple, with rose and dew, In the world thy river wandered through;— “Came never again to revive and recall Thy youth from its water burial. “But now thy face is battle-dark; The strife of the world has graven a mark “About the lips that are no more mine, Too sweet to forget, too strong to repine. “With the ends of the earth for thy garden now, What solace and what reward hast thou?” Then he of the earth’s sun-traversed side To him of the under-world replied, “O glad mysterious face in the stream, My lost illusion, my summer dream, “Thou fairer self of a fonder time, A far imperishable clime, “For thy dear sake I have fared alone And fronted failure and housed with none. “What youth was that, when the world was green, In the lovely mythus Greek and clean, “Was doomed with his flowery kin to bide, A blown white star by the river side, “And no more follow the sun, foot free, Too long enamoured of one like thee? “Shall God who abides in the patient flower, The painted dust sustained by his power, “Refuse to the wing of the dragonfly His sanction over the open sky,— “A frail detached and wandering thing Torn loose from the blossomy life of spring? “And this is man, the myriad one, Dust’s flower and time’s ephemeron. “And I who have followed the wander-list For a glimpse of beauty, a wraith in the mist, “Shall be spilt at last and return to peace, As dust which the hands of the wind release. “This is my solace and my reward, Who have drained life’s dregs from a broken shard.” Wise and grave was the water face, A youth grown man in a little space; While the wayworn face by the river side Grew gentler-lipped and shadowy-eyed; For he heard like a sea-horn summoning him That sound from the world’s end vast and dim, Where the river went wandering out so far Through a gate in the mountain left ajar, The sea birds love and the land birds flee, The large bleak voice of the burly sea.

The Cruise of the Galleon

This laboring vast, Tellurian Galleon, Riding at anchor off the orient sun, Had broken its cable, and stood out to space. FRANCIS THOMPSON. Galleon, ahoy, ahoy! Old earth riding off the sun, And straining at your cable as you ride On the tide, Battered laboring and vast, In the blast Of the hurricane that blows between the worlds, Ahoy! ’Morning, shipmates! ’Drift and chartless? Laded deep and rolling hard? Never guessed, outworn and heartless, There was land so close aboard? Ice on every shroud and eyelet, Rocking in the windy trough? No more panic; Man’s your pilot; Turns the flood, and we are off! At the story of disaster, From the continents of sleep, I am come to be your master And put out into the deep. What tide current struck you hither, Beating up the storm of years? Where are those who stood to weather These uncharted gulfs of tears? Did your fellows all drive under In the maelstrom of the sun, While you only, for a wonder, Rode the wash you could not shun? We’ll crowd sail across the sea-line,— Clear this harbor, reef and buoy, Bowling down an open bee-line For the latitudes of joy; Till beyond the zones of sorrow, Past griefs haven in the night, Some large simpler world shall morrow This pale region’s northern light. Not a fear but all the sea-room, Wherein time is but a bay, Yet shall sparkle for our lee-room In the vast Altrurian day. And the dauntless seaworn spirit Shall awake to know there are What dominions to inherit, Anchored off another star!

A Song Before Sailing

“Cras ingens iterabimus aequor.” Wind of the dead men’s feet, Blow down the empty street Of this old city by the sea With news for me! Blow me beyond the grime And pestilence of time! I am too sick at heart to war With failure any more. Thy chill is in my bones; The moonlight on the stones Is pale, and palpable, and cold; I am as one grown old. I call from room to room Through the deserted gloom; The echoes are all words I know, Lost in some long ago. I prowl from door to door, And find no comrade more. The wolfish fear that children feel Is snuffing at my heel. I hear the hollow sound Of a great ship coming round, The thunder of tackle and the tread Of sailors overhead. That stormy-blown hulloo Has orders for me, too. I see thee, hand at mouth, and hark, My captain of the dark. O wind of the great East, By whom we are released From this strange dusty port to sail Beyond our fellows’ hail, Under the stars that keep The entry of the deep, Thy somber voice brings up the sea’s Forgotten melodies; And I have no more need Of bread, or wine, or creed, Bound for the colonies of time Beyond the farthest prime. Wind of the dead men’s feet, Blow through the empty street! The last adventurer am I, Then, world, good-by!