Out of the air a time of quiet came, Calm fell upon the heaven like a drowth; The brass sky watched the brassy water flame. Drowsed as a snail the clipper loitered south Slowly, with no white bone across her mouth; No rushing glory, like a queen made bold, The Dauber strove to draw her as she rolled. There the four leaning spires of canvas rose, Royals and skysails lifting, gently lifting, White like the brightness that a great fish blows When billows are at peace and ships are drifting; With mighty jerks that set the shadows shifting, The courses tugged their tethers: a blue haze Drifted like ghosts of flocks come down to graze. There the great skyline made her perfect round, Notched now and then by the sea's deeper blue; A smoke-smutch marked a steamer homeward bound, The haze wrought all things to intenser hue. In tingling impotence the Dauber drew As all men draw, keen to the shaken soul To give a hint that might suggest the whole. A naked seaman washing a red shirt Sat at a tub whistling between his teeth; Complaining blocks quavered like something hurt. A sailor cut an old boot for a sheath, The ship bowed to her shadow-ship beneath, And little slaps of spray came at the roll On to the deck-planks from the scupper-hole. He watched it, painting patiently, as paints With eyes that pierce behind the blue sky's veil, The Benedictine in a Book of Saints Watching the passing of the Holy Grail; The green dish dripping blood, the trump, the hail, The spears that pass, the memory and the passion, The beauty moving under this world's fashion. But as he painted, slowly, man by man, The seamen gathered near; the Bosun stood Behind him, jeering; then the Sails began Sniggering with comment that it was not good. Chips flicked his sketch with little scraps of wood, Saying, "That hit the top-knot," every time. Cook mocked, "My lovely drawings; it's a crime." Slowly the men came nearer, till a crowd Stood at his elbow, muttering as he drew; The Bosun, turning to them, spoke aloud, "This is the ship that never got there. You Look at her here, what Dauber's trying to do. Look at her! lummy, like a Christmas-tree. That thing's a ship; he calls this painting. See?" Seeing the crowd, the Mate came forward; then "Sir," said the Bosun, "come and see the sight! Here's Dauber makes a circus for the men. He calls this thing a ship--this hell's delight!" "Man," said the Mate, "you'll never get her right Daubing like that. Look here!" He took a brush. "Now, Dauber, watch; I'll put you to the blush. "Look here. Look there. Now watch this ship of mine." He drew her swiftly from a memory stored. "God, sir," the Bosun said, "you do her fine!" "Ay," said the Mate, "I do so, by the Lord! I'll paint a ship with any man aboard." They hung about his sketch like beasts at bait. "There now, I taught him painting," said the Mate.