How lorn they howled, with lifted head,
To dim and distant isles that lay
Wedged tight along a line of red,
Caught in the closing gates of day
’Twixt sky and sea and far away,—
It was the saddest sound to hear
That ever struck on human ear.
They doleful called; and answered they
The plaintive sea-cows far away,—
The great sea-cows that called from isles,
Away across wide watery miles,
With dripping mouths and lolling tongue,
As if they called for captured young,—
The huge sea-cows that called the whiles
Their great wide mouths were mouthing moss;
And still they doleful called across
From isles beyond the watery miles.
No sound can half so doleful be
As sea-cows calling from the sea.
XXXV.
The drowned sun sank and died. He lay
In seas of blood. He sinking drew
The gates of sunset sudden to,
Where shattered day in fragments lay,
And night came, moving in mad flame:
The night came, lighted as he came,
As lighted by high summer sun
Descending through the burning blue.
It was a gold and amber hue,
And all hues blended into one.
The night spilled splendor where she came,
And filled the yellow world with flame.
The moon came on, came leaning low
Along the far sea-isles aglow;
She fell along that amber flood
A silver flame in seas of blood.
It was the strangest moon, ah me!
That ever settled on God’s sea.
XXXVI.
Slim snakes slid down from fern and grass,
From wood, from fen, from anywhere;
You could not step, you would not pass,
And you would hesitate to stir,
Lest in some sudden, hurried tread
Your foot struck some unbruisèd head:
They slid in streams into the stream,—
It seemed like some infernal dream;
They curved, and graceful curved across,
Like graceful, waving sea-green moss,—
There is no art of man can make
A ripple like a rippling snake!