O Mistress of the western seas
I've sought you by the shores,
Amongst the rocks, the cedar trees
And where the ocean roars
And crashes. I have felt a breeze,
A seaside whispering;
I've lain through afternoons of ease
To sirens listening.
For they, commingling with the foam
Which caps the spumy waves,
Were telling of your hidden home
Where poets make their graves.
By every morning that I've strolled,
As often I've beheld
The gulls and terns, their voices rolled
In yours, a song has welled
From some deep recess, secret sea
Of waters dark and cold;
Yet flush with truths invisibly,
Eternally retold.
To them I've listened, listened well
For all these many years;
I've known their melancholy swell -
The salt of human tears.
I've walked beneath the lonesome moon
When all the noise of day,
The sirens of the afternoon,
Had all but died away.
My Mistress you were clearer then,
And clear your gentle moan;
Yet still you flitted from my ken
And I was left alone.
Fade not into the deep, fade not
From one so like to you!
Imbue me with your sacred draught,
Though misery ensue.
O Mistress, I'll behold the dawn,
I'll watch the dying day;
I'll see your spirit sail upon
A cloud, or on a ray
Of amber light, to take your rest
Upon the ocean's lip;
I'll press that moment to my breast
That it may never slip
Away again. Though it may burn
And yield me up its pain,
My heart for you shall ever yearn
To mark your mournful strain.
So happy would I be to score
Your plaintive song but once:
The music of the ocean's core
For which my spirit hunts;
To send amongst my fellow men,
And hear their joyous cries
At this - the child of my pen
Before this body dies.
Then Mistress, if my fortunes hold
I'd slip beneath your waves,
And sleep amid my forebears old,
Where poets make their graves.
No comments:
Post a Comment