Brave, but with quivering lips, Each alone in the press of the crowd, Was saying it over and over. The day flooded all of the sky; And the ships of the sullen blockade Weighed anchor and drew down the wind, Leaving their wreck to the waves. Hour heaved slowly on hour, Yet how could the city rejoice With the women out there by the wall! Night grew under the wharves, And crept through the listening streets, Until only the red of the tiles Seemed warm from the breath of the day; And the faces that waited and watched Blurred into a wavering line, Like foam on the curve of the dark, Down there by the reticent sea. What if the darkness should bring The lean blockade-runners across With food for the hungry and spent.... Who could joy in the sudden release While the faces, still-smiling, but wan, Turned slowly to hallow the town? D.H. [6] See the note at the back of the book. LANDBOUND Bring me one breath from the deep salt sea, Ye vagrant upland airs! Over your forest and field and lea, From the windy deeps that have mothered me, To the heart of one who cares. Clear to the peace of the sunlit park, You bring with your evening lull The vesper song of the meadow lark; But my soul is sick for the seething dark, And the scream of a wind-blown gull. And bring to me from the ocean's breast No crooning lullaby; But the shout of a bleak storm-riven crest As it shoulders up in the sodden West And hurtles down the sky. That, breathing deep, I may feel the sweep Of the wind and the driving rain. For so I know that my heart will leap To meet the call of the strident deep, And will thrill to life again. D.H. TWO PAGES FROM THE BOOK OF THE SEA ISLANDS PAGE ONE SHADOWS There is deliberateness in all sea-island ways, As alien to our days as stone wheels are. The Islands cannot see the use of life Which only lives for change. There days are flat, And all things must move slowly; Even the seasons are conservative-- No sudden flaunting of wild colors in the fall, Only a gradual fading of the green, As if the earth turned slowly, Or looked with one still face upon the sun As Venus does-- Until the trees, the fields, the marshes, All turn dun, dull Quaker-brown, And a mild winter settles down, And mosses are more gray. All human souls are glasses which reflect The aspects of the outer world; See what terrible gods the huge Himalayas bred! And the fierce Jewish Jaywah came From the hot Syrian deserts With his inhibitory decalogue. The gods of little hills are always tame; Here God is dull, where all things stay the same.