And sweet are the sands at the full o' the moon with the sound of the voices we love; But sweeter, O brothers, the kiss of the spray and the dance of the wild foam's glee; Row, brothers, row to the blue of the verge, where the low sky mates with the sea. - Sarojini Naidu A VAGABOND SONG There is something in the autumn that is native to my bloodTouch of manner, hint of mood; And my heart is like a rhyme, With the yellow and the purple and the crimson keeping time. The scarlet of the maples can shake me like a cry Of bugles going by. And my lonely spirit thrills To see the frosty asters like a smoke upon the hills. There is something in October sets the gipsy blood astir; We must rise and follow her, When from every hill of flame She calls and calls each vagabond by name. There's a schooner in the offing, I must forth again to-morrow! Hull down on the trail of rapture In the wonder of the Sea. THE VAGABOND - Richard Hovey Give to me the life I love, Let the blow fall soon or late, Or let autumn fall on me I must down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky, And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by, And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking, And a grey mist on the sea's face and a grey dawn breaking. I must down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied; I must down to the seas again to the vagrant gypsy life, To the gull's way and the whale's way where the wind's like a whetted knife; And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow rover, And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over. - John Masefield THE GOLDEN CITY OF ST. MARY Out beyond the sunset, could I but find the way, It's built of fair marble-white-without a stain, Among the green palm-trees where the fire-flies shine, Oh I'll be shipping sunset-wards and westward-ho Till I come to quiet moorings and a watch below, In the Golden City of St. Mary. - John Masefield SPANISH WATERS Spanish waters, Spanish waters, you are ringing in my ears, Like a slow sweet piece of music from the grey forgotten years; Telling tales, and beating tunes, and bringing weary thoughts to me Of the sandy beach at Muertos, where I would that I could be. There's a surf breaks on Los Muertos, and it never stops to roar, And it's there we came to anchor, and it's there we went ashore, Where the blue lagoon is silent amid snags of rotting trees, Dropping like the clothes of corpses cast up by the seas. We anchored at Los Muertos when the dipping sun was red, We left her half-a-mile to sea, to west of Nigger Head; And before the mist was on the Cay, before the day was done, We were all ashore on Muertos with the gold that we had won. We bore it through the marshes in a half-score battered chests, Sinking, in the sucking quagmires, to the sunburn on our breasts, Heaving over tree-trunks, gasping, damning at the flies and heat, Longing for a long drink, out of silver, in the ship's cool lazareet. |