Ships in Harbour.

by David Morton.

WOODEN SHIPS

They are remembering forests where they grew,-- The midnight quiet, and the giant dance; And all the murmuring summers that they knew Are haunting still their altered circ.u.mstance.

Leaves they have lost, and robins in the nest, Tug of the goodly earth denied to ships, These, and the rooted certainties, and rest,-- To gain a watery girdle at the hips.

Only the wind that follows ever aft, They greet not as a stranger on their ways; But this old friend, with whom they drank and laughed, Sits in the stern and talks of other days When they had held high baccha.n.a.lias still, Or dreamed among the stars on some tall hill.

OCTOBER DAY-MOON

Loosed from her secret moorings, The thin and silver moon, Floats wide above these oceans Of yellow afternoon,-- Who slipped her fragile cables, And blew to sea too soon.

She bears no bales--but wonder, Not anything of note: How should she, being merely A slender petal-boat?...

But rated in the shipping: The dearest tramp afloat.

A GARDEN WALL

The Roman wall was not more grave than this, That has no league at all with great affairs, That knows no ruder hands than clematis, No louder blasts than blowing April airs.

Yet, with a grey solemnity it broods, Above the walk where simple folk go past, And in its crannies keeps their transient moods, Holding their careless words unto the last.

The rains of summer, and the creeping vine That season after season clings in trust, And shivered poppies red as Roman wine,-- These things at last will haunt its crumbled dust-- Not dreams of empires shattered where they lie, But children's laughter, birds, and bits of sky.

NAPOLEON IN HADES

They stirred uneasily, drew close their capes, And whispered each to each in awed surprise, Seeing this figure brood along the shapes, World tragedies thick-crowding through his eyes.

On either side the ghostly groups drew back In huddled knots, yielding him way and room, Their foolish mouths agape and fallen slack, Their bloodless fingers pointing through the gloom.

Still lonely and magnificent in guilt, Splendid in scorn, rapt in a cloudy dream, He paused at last upon the Stygian silt, And raised calm eyes above the angry stream....

Hand in his breast, he stood till Charon came, While Hades hummed with gossip of his name.

SYMBOLS

Beautiful words, like b.u.t.terflies, blow by, With what swift colours on their fragile wings!-- Some that are less articulate than a sigh, Some that were names of ancient, lovely things.

What delicate careerings of escape, When they would pa.s.s beyond the baffled reach, To leave a haunting shadow and a shape,-- Eluding still the careful traps of speech.

And I who watch and listen, lie in wait, Seeing the cloudy cavalcades blow past,-- Happy if some bright vagrant, soon or late, May venture near the snares of sound, at last-- Most fortunate captor if, from time to time, One may be taken, trembling, in a rhyme.

EXILED

Sensing these sweet renewals through the earth, Where seed and soil most happily conspire To furnish forth gay rituals of mirth, Of shaken leaves and pointed blooms of fire,-- I wonder then that thoughtful man, alone, Walks darkly and all puzzled with a doubt, Bewildered, and in truth, half-fearful grown Of wild, wild earth and April's joyous rout.

When we are dust again with soil and seed, With happy earth through many a happy Spring, We yet may learn that joy was all our need,-- That man's long thought is but a broken wing, Of less account, as things may come to pa.s.s, Than Spring's first robin breasting through the gra.s.s.

MARY SETS THE TABLE

She brings such gay and shining things to pa.s.s, With delicate, deft fingers that are learned In ways of silverware and cup and gla.s.s, Arrayed in ordered patterns, trimly turned;-- And never guesses how this subtle ease Is older than the oldest tale we tell, This gift that guides her through such tricks as these,---- And my delight in watching her, as well.

She thinks not how this art with spoon and plate, Is one with ancient women baking bread: An epic heritance come down of late To slender hands, and dear, delightful head,-- How Trojan housewives vie in serving me, Where Mary sets the table things for tea.

AUTUMN TEA TIME

The late light falls across the floor, Turned amber from a yellow tree,-- And there are yellow cups for four, And lemon for the tea.

The maples, with a million flames, Have lit the golden afternoon, An ambient radiance that shames The ineffective moon....

Till dull and smoky greys return, Quenching the street with chills and damps-- Leaving these asters where they burn, Mellow like evening lamps.

BATTLEFIELDS

Unto these fields of torn and rutted earth, These hills that lift their many a naked scar, There yet shall come the indomitable mirth Of Springs that have remembered where they are.

The slow processions of sweet sun and rain Will crown the changing seasons as they pa.s.s, With healing and green fruit and swollen grain, And banners of the gay and dauntless gra.s.s.

Here little paths will find their way again, And here the patient cattle come to stand, Until, grown half-incredulous, these men Looking from doorways on the evening land, Can scarcely think--so deep the quiet lies-- How all of this was ever otherwise.