  SAILING SHIPSLYING on Downs above the wrinkling bay I with the kestrels shared the cleanly day, The candid day; wind-shaven, brindled turf; Tall cliffs; and long sea-line of marbled surf From Cornish Lizard to the Kentish Nore Lipping the bulwarks of the English shore, While many a lovely ship below sailed by On unknown errand, kempt and leisurely; And after each, oh, after each, my heart Fled forth, as, watching from the Downs apart, I shared with ships good joys and fortunes wide That might befall their beauty and their pride; Shared first with them the blessÈd void repose Of oily days at sea, when only rose The porpoise’s slow wheel to break the sheen Of satin water indolently green, When for’ard the crew, caps tilted over eyes, Lay heaped on deck; slept; murmured; smoked; threw dice; The sleepy summer days; the summer nights (The coast pricked out with rings of harbour-lights), The motionless nights, the vaulted nights of June When high in the cordage drifts the entangled moon, And blocks go knocking, and the sheets go slapping, And lazy swells against the sides come lapping; And summer mornings off red Devon rocks, Faint inland bells at dawn and crowing cocks. Shared swifter days, when headlands into ken Trod grandly; threatened; and were lost again, Old fangs along the battlemented coast; And followed still my ship, when winds were most Night-purified, and, lying steeply over, She fled the wind as flees a girl her lover, Quickened by that pursuit for which she fretted, Her temper by the contest proved and whetted; Wild stars swept overhead; her lofty spars Reared to a ragged heaven sown with stars As leaping out from narrow English ease She faced the roll of long Atlantic seas; Her captain then was I, I was her crew, The mind that laid her course, the wake she drew, The waves that rose against her bows, the gales,— Nay, I was more: I was her very sails Rounded before the wind, her eager keel, Her straining mast-heads, her responsive wheel, Her pennon stiffened like a swallow’s wing; Yes, I was all her slope and speed and swing, Whether by yellow lemons and blue sea She dawdled through the isles off Thessaly, Or saw the palms like sheaves of scimitars On desert’s verge below the sunset bars, Or passed the girdle of the planet where The Southern Cross looks over to the Bear, And strayed, cool Northerner beneath strange skies, Flouting the lure of tropic estuaries, Down that long coast, and saw Magellan’s Clouds arise. And some that beat up Channel homeward-bound I watched, and wondered what they might have found, What alien ports enriched their teeming hold With crates of fruit or bars of unwrought gold? And thought how London clerks with paper-clips Had filed the bills of lading of those ships, Clerks that had never seen the embattled sea, But wrote down jettison and barratry, Perils, Adventures, and the Act of God, Having no vision of such wrath flung broad; Wrote down with weary and accustomed pen The classic dangers of sea-faring men; And wrote “Restraint of Princes,” and “the acts Of the King’s Enemies,” as vacant facts, Blind to the ambushed seas, the encircling roar Of angry nations foaming into war. PHANTOMI saw a ship sailing, No other ship in sight. Steadily she was sailing Although the wind fell light. Although the wind was failing Still she kept sailing. No hand there that steered her, No wind that strained her sheet. And as I gazed I feared her: Why should she be so fleet Since no crew’s chanty cheered her, And no wind neared her? Her strange sure motion Carried her swiftly past; Over the rim of ocean I watched her dip her mast. Still no wind blew in motion Across the ocean. GENOESE MERCHANTSTHEY garnered wealth from far barbarian shores, From Caffa, Tyre, and Trebizond, And Tartar provinces beyond; Furs, spices, oranges, and slaves. High galleys waited, runged with tiers of oars, And rippled their reflection in the waves. Bearded and serge-clad merchants, tightly-lipped, They stood in groups along the foreign quays Watching the cargo shipped By coloured sons of Asia; these Groaned loaded up the planks, and rolled Their burdens down the hold; And back the planks unburdened nimbly tripped, Their pumpkin-fluted turbans and their scarves Ballooning as they swarmed upon the wharves. And some old shaven brightly-plumaged priest, Drowsing outside his mosque when shadows fall Like lengthened lances pointing to the East, From fourfold minaret, And through the iron grating in the wall The sun-flushed Himalaya guards Thibet, —He, fat and somnolent, Yawning amongst the pigeons’ sleek content, Opened one crafty, long, Mongolian eye, And saw the slim Italian passing by With soft-foot tread Into the mosque, but never raised his head, And slipped his cedar beads, and never stirred Though the quick patter of the coins he heard Fall in a handful mixed of maize and rice Flung to the pigeons, coins that were his price. While far, in Europe, lay the Flemish fairs, The marts of Ypres, the Jews of busy Thames Greedy to clutch the unfamiliar gems, And rummage in the bales of rich exotic wares. EVENINGWHEN little lights in little ports come out, Quivering down through water with the stars, And all the fishing fleet of slender spars Range at their moorings, veer with tide about; When race of wind is stilled and sails are furled, And underneath our single riding-light The curve of black-ribbed deck gleams palely white, And slumbrous waters pool a slumbrous world, —Then, and then only, have I thought how sweet Old age might sink upon a windy youth, Quiet beneath the riding-light of truth, Weathered through storms, and gracious in retreat. “Sumurun,”
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