The old church clock strikes one, and down the row
Of ancient houses where the moonlight floods,
The black tree branches move like wands that throw
A net of woven loopings flecked with buds.
The night is still, a silver quiet now
Transforms the plain old homes whose ancient mood
Returns; through panelled doorways come and go
Figures soft shod, in prim calash and hood;
Here by a lilac bush the little gate
Supports two figures of sweetheart and beau
Here by a hedge two others hesitate
Then join the shadowy thronging too and fro.
Do you believe that in those rooms upstair
The newer generation dreams again
Back to the lives of all these women and men
Setting them free to haunt the pavements here?
That youngsters sleeping see sails homeward fare,
Ships laden with treasure and salt romance;
The Quakers’ broad brim; Puritans askance?
That such bold dreaming sets these spirits free
On this deserted street in moonlit beam
“Coming alive,” though coming soberly
And looking on us as figures in their dream?
Hush, with what proud simplicity these figures move
And live again austerities of grace
Who used their lives so guardedly—this glove
The homespun petticoat! this barbe of lace!
Boots and prunellas on the brick path pace;
Fair tinted skin, clear eye and honored name
Come through the panelled doors or garden place.
The scholars’ reserve, the solid merchants’ fame
The Friends, the Captains, blooded knight and dame,
Who to old English gentry backward trace.
So through the cobbled streets they silently press
On very gentle errands of their own
And make no plea, and no proud tale confess
Nor look aghast at their once simple town
Yet do they smile, permitting us to guess
That they prefer their own to our renown....
Was that the clock just struck ... the street is clear
The moon rides high, there are no figures here....
Someone stopped dreaming in this street, my dear!
PSALM OF IMAGINED HUNGER.
If I were starving in Nantucket I would first
Go down to the beach and dig for quahaugs;
Or some scallops.
Or drop overboard a neat little lobster car,
Or row to a place where there are wild oysters;
Then I would hang around the docks at five o’clock
When the fishermen come in,
And perhaps get an extra plaicefish
Or some shark or black fish,
(Though I shouldn’t like to eat horseshoe crab or squid)
That failing, I would go out on the moors and snare a pheasant;
I would catch a rabbit and though I wouldn’t know how to cook it, an owl.
To eat crow, I have heard is not judicious—but how about marsh-hawk?
If it were August I would get Irish moss out of the sea,
And flavor it with cranberries.
I would then go crabbing near Our Island Home;
If it were July I should live in the blueberry patches
And find black berries, (you know where!)
And get strawberries in the old cemetery.
I would go mushrooming (very prudently) in fields near Thorn Lots.
I would go beach plumming (very early) on the State Road
I would get in touch with grape vines near Wauwinet
And with hazel nuts near ’Sconset
And dig for swamp root out near Madaket.
Elder berry would be a last resort!
I would hang over the fences of a certain yard in Hussey Street
To see if grapes and pears would come to me.
Or I would interrupt tea-parties on Pleasant Street
Boldly walking in and asking for apples.
Of course I would weed the potato patch of anyone that asked me to
For two potatoes.
I would help with the melons and do what I could for corn and pumpkins;
Peaches and cherries I would pluck on shares
But if all these things failed I would go to a little house,
Where they always know what I mean
And ask for food!
THE MOON-CANOE.
Where evening tides creep dark and blue,
I launch my little moon-canoe.
I leave the planet harbor light,
And lay my course along the Night.