Chapter 3

And the houses of dark be overthrown; When the goblin maids shall love their own,--

Their arms forever unlaced from their hold Of the earls of the sea on that alien wold,--

And the feckless light of their golden eyes Shall forget the desire that made them wise;

When the hands of the foam shall beckon and flee. And the Kelpie riders ride for the sea;

And the whip-poor-will the whole night long Repeat his litanies of song,

Till morning whiten the world again, And the flowers revive on Bareau Fen,

Over the acres of calm Rochelle Fresh by the stream of the crystal well.

NOONS OF POPPY

Noons of poppy, noons of poppy, Scarlet leagues along the sea; Flaxen hair afloat in sunlight, Love, come down the world to me!

There's a Captain I must ship with, (Heart, that day be far from now!) Wears his dark command in silence With the sea-frost on his brow.

Noons of poppy, noons of poppy, Purple shadows by the sea; How should love take thought to wonder What the destined port may be?

Nay, if love have joy for shipmate For a night-watch or a year, Dawn will light o'er Lonely Haven, Heart to happy heart, as here.

Noons of poppy, noons of poppy, Scarlet acres by the sea Burning to the blue above them; Love, the world is full for me.

LEGENDS OF LOST HAVEN

There are legends of Lost Haven, Come, I know not whence, to me, When the wind is in the clover, When the sun is on the sea.

There are rumors in the pine-tops, There are whispers in the grass; And the flocking crows at nightfall Bring home hints of things that pass

Out upon the broad dike yonder, All day long beneath the sun, Where the tall ships cloud and settle Down the sea-curve, one by one.

And the crickets in fine chorus-- Every slim and tiny reed-- Strive to chord the broken rhythmus Of the world, and half succeed.

There are myriad traditions Treasured by the talking rain; And with memories the moonlight Walks the cold and silent plain.

Where the river tells his hill-tales To the lone complaining bar, Where the midgets thread their dances To the yellow twilight star,

Where the blossom bends to hearken To the bee with velvet bands, There are chronicles enciphered Of the yet uncharted lands.

All the musical marauders Of the berry and the bloom Sing the lure of soul's illusion Out of darkness, out of doom.

But the sure and great evangel Comes when half alone I hear, At the rosy door of silence, Love, the lord of speech, draw near.

Then for once across the threshold, Darkling spirit, thou art free,-- As thy hope is every ship makes Some lost haven of the sea.

THE SHADOW BOATSWAIN

Don't you know the sailing orders? It is time to put to sea, And the stranger in the harbor Sends a boat ashore for me.

With the thunder of her canvas Coming on the wind again, I can hear the Shadow Boatswain Piping to his shadow men.

Is it firelight or morning, That red flicker on the floor? Your good-by was braver, sweetheart, When I sailed away before.

Think of this last lovely summer! Love, what ails the wind to-night? What's he saying in the chimney Turns your berry cheek so white?

What a morning! How the sunlight Sparkles on the outer bay, Where the brig lies waiting for me To trip anchor and away!

That's the Doomkeel. You may know her By her clean run aft; and, then, Don't you hear the Shadow Boatswain Piping to his shadow men?

Off the freshening sea to windward, Is it a white tern I hear Shrilling in the gusty weather Where the far sea-line is clear?

What a morning for departure! How your blue eyes melt and shine! Will you watch us from the headland Till we sink below the line?

I can see the wind already Steer the scurf marks of the tide, As we slip the wake of being Down the sloping world and wide.

I can feel the vasty mountains Heave and settle under me, And the Doomkeel veer and shudder, Crumbling on the hollow sea.

There's a call, as when a white gull Cries and beats across the blue; That must be the Shadow Boatswain Piping to his shadow crew.

There's a boding sound, like winter When the pines begin to quail; That must be the gray wind moaning In the belly of the sail.

I can feel the icy fingers Creeping in upon my bones; There must be a berg to windward Somewhere in these border zones.

Stir the fire.... I love the sunlight,-- Always loved my shipmate sun. How the sunflowers beckon to me From the dooryard one by one!

How the royal lady roses Strew this summer world of ours! There'll be none in Lonely Haven; It is too far north for flowers.

There, sweetheart! And I must leave you. What should touch my wife with tears? There's no danger with the Master; He has sailed the sea for years.

With the sea-wolves on her quarter, And a white bone in her teeth, He will steer the shadow cruiser, Dark before and doom beneath,

Down the last expanse, till morning Flares above the broken sea, And the midnight storm is over, And the Isles are close alee.

So some twilight, when your roses Are all blown and it is June, You will turn your blue eyes seaward Through the white dusk of the moon,

Wondering, as that far sea-cry Comes upon the wind again, And you hear the Shadow Boatswain Piping to his shadow men.

THE MASTER OF THE ISLES

There is rumor in Dark Harbor, And the folk are all astir; For a stranger in the offing Draws them down to gaze at her,

In the gray of early morning, Black against the orange streak, Making in below the ledges, With no colors at her peak.

Something makes their hearts uneasy As they watch the long black hull, For she brings the storm behind her While before her there is lull.

With no pilot and unspoken, Where the dancing breakers are, Presently she veers and races In across the roaring bar,--

Rounds and luffs and comes to anchor, While the wharf begins to throng. Silence falls upon the women. And misgiving stirs the strong.

Then with some obscure foreboding, As a gray-haired watcher smiles, They perceive the fearless captain Is the Master of the Isles.

They recall the bleak December Many streaming years ago, When the stranger had been sighted Driving shoreward with the snow;

When the Master came among them With his calm and courtly pride, And had sailed away at sundown With pale Dora for his bride;

How again he came one summer When the herring schools were late, And had cleared before the morning With old Alec's son for mate.

There was glamour with the Master; He had tales of far-off seas; But his habit and demeanor Were of other lands than these.

He had never made the Harbor But there sailed away with him Wife or child or friend or lover, Leaving eyes to strain and swim,--

Strain and wait for their returning; Yet they never had come back; For the pale wake of the Master Is a wandering, fading track.

Just beyond our utmost fathom Is the anchorage we crave, But the Master knows the soundings By the reach of every wave.

Just beyond the last horizon, Vague upon the weather-gleam, Loom the Faroff Isles forever, The tradition of a dream.

There a white and brooding summer Haunts upon the gray sea-plain, Where the gray sea-winds are quiet At the sources of the rain.

There where all world-weary dreamers Get them forth to their release, Lie the colonies of the kindred, In the provinces of peace.

Thither in the stormy sunset Will the Master sail to-night; And the village will be silent When he drops below the light.

Not a soul on all the hillside But will watch her when she clears, Dreaming of the Port o' Strangers In the roadstead of the years.

"Port o' Strangers, Port o' Strangers!" "Where away?" "On the weather bow." "Drive her down the closing distance!"... That's to-morrow, but not now.

What imperial adventure Some wide morning it will be, Sweeping in to Lonely Haven From the chartless round of sea!

How imposing a departure, While this little harbor smiles, Steering for the outer sea-rim With the Master of the Isles!

THE LAST WATCH

Comrades, comrades, have me buried Like a warrior of the sea, With a flag across my breast And my sword upon my knee.

Steering out from vanished headlands For a harbor on no chart, With the winter in the rigging, With the ice-wind in my heart,

Down the bournless slopes of sea-room, With the long gray wake behind, I have sailed my cruiser steady With no pilot but the wind.

Battling with relentless pirates From the lower seas of Doom, I have kept the colors flying Through the roar of drift and gloom.

Scudding where the shadow foemen Hang about us grim and stark, Broken spars and shredded canvas, We are racing for the dark.

Sped and blown abaft the sunset Like a shriek the storm has caught; But the helm is lashed to windward, And the sails are sheeted taut.

Comrades, comrades, have me buried Like a warrior of the night. I can hear the bell-buoy calling Down below the harbor light

Steer in shoreward, loose the signal, The last watch has been cut short; Speak me kindly to the islesmen, When we make the foreign port.

We shall make it ere the morning Rolls the fog from strait and bluff; Where the offing crimsons eastward There is anchorage enough.

How I wander in my dreaming! Are we northing nearer home, Or outbound for fresh adventure On the reeling plains of foam?

North I think it is, my comrades, Where one heart-beat counts for ten, Where the loving hand is loyal, And the women's sons are men;

Where the red auroras tremble When the polar night is still, Lighting home the worn seafarers To their haven in the hill.

Comrades, comrades, have me buried Like a warrior of the North. Lower me the long-boat, stay me In your arms, and bear me forth;

Lay me in the sheets and row me, With the tiller in my hand, Row me in below the beacon Where my sea-dogs used to land.

Has your captain lost his cunning After leading you so far? Row me your last league, my sea-kings; It is safe within the bar.

Shoulder me and house me hillward, Where the field-lark makes his bed, So the gulls can wheel above me, All day long when I am dead;

Where the keening wind can find me With the April rain for guide, And come crooning her old stories Of the kingdoms of the tide.

Comrades, comrades, have me buried Like a warrior of the sun; I have carried my sealed orders Till the last command is done.

Kiss me on the cheek for courage, (There is none to greet me home,) Then farewell to your old lover Of the thunder of the foam;

For the grass is full of slumber In the twilight world for me, And my tired hands are slackened From their toiling on the sea.

OUTBOUND

A lonely sail in the vast sea-room, I have put out for the port of gloom.

The voyage is far on the trackless tide, The watch is long, and the seas are wide.

The headlands blue in the sinking day Kiss me a hand on the outward way.

The fading gulls, as they dip and veer, Lift me a voice that is good to hear.

The great winds come, and the heaving sea, The restless mother, is calling me.

The cry of her heart is lone and wild, Searching the night for her wandered child.

Beautiful, weariless mother of mine, In the drift of doom I am here, I am thine.

Beyond the fathom of hope or fear, From bourn to bourn of the dusk I steer,

Swept on in the wake of the stars, in the stream Of a roving tide, from dream to dream.