The Drowning
The rust of hours,
Through a year of days,
Has dulled the edge of the pain;
But at night
A wheel in my sleep
Grinds it smooth and keen.
By day I remember
A face that was lit
With the softness of human pattern;
But at night
It is changed in my sleep
To a bygone carved in chalk.
A cottage inland
Through a year of days
Has latched its doors on the sea;
But at night
I return in my sleep
To the cold, green lure of the waters.
Monologues and Dialogues
I
CARLO
"The dog that saved the lives of more than ninety persons in that recent week, by swimming with a line from the sinking vessel to the shore, well understood the importance as well as the risk of his mission."—Extract from a Newfoundland paper.