And sunnier scenes would grow under his brush. The tropic dawn with all things dropping dew, The darkness and the wonder and the hush, The insensate grey before the marvel grew; Then the veil lifted from the trembling blue, The walls of sky burst in, the flower, the rose, All the expanse of heaven a mind that glows. He turned out of his bunk; the Cook still tossed, One of the other two spoke in his sleep, A cockroach scuttled where the moonbeam crossed; Outside there was the ship, the night, the deep. "It is worth while," the youth said; "I will keep To my resolve, I'll learn to paint all this. My Lord, my God, how beautiful it is!" Outside was the ship's rush to the wind's hurry, A resonant wire-hum from every rope, The broadening bow-wash in a fiery flurry, The leaning masts in their majestic slope, And all things strange with moonlight: filled with hope By all that beauty going as man bade, He turned and slept in peace. Eight bells were made. II Next day was Sunday, his free painting day, While the fine weather held, from eight till eight. He rose when called at five, and did array The round-house gear, and set the kit-bags straight Then kneeling down, like housemaid at a grate, He scrubbed the deck with sand until his knees Were blue with dye from his wet dungarees. Soon all was clean, his Sunday tasks were done; His day was clear for painting as he chose. The wetted decks were drying in the sun, The men coiled up, or swabbed, or sought repose. The drifts of silver arrows fell and rose As flying fish took wing; the breakfast passed, Wasting good time, but he was free at last. Free for two hours and more to tingle deep, Catching a likeness in a line or tint, The canvas running up in a proud sweep, Wind-wrinkled at the clews, and white like lint, The glittering of the blue waves into glint; Free to attempt it all, the proud ship's pawings, The sea, the sky--he went to fetch his drawings. Up to the deck-house top he quickly climbed, He stooped to find them underneath the boat. He found them all obliterated, slimed, Blotted, erased, gone from him line and note. They were all spoiled: a lump came in his throat, Being vain of his attempts, and tender skinned-- Beneath the skylight watching reefers grinned. He clambered down, holding the ruined things. "Bosun," he called, "look here, did you do these: Wipe off my paints and cut them into strings, And smear them till you can't tell chalk from cheese? Don't stare, but did you do it? Answer, please." The Bosun turned: "I'll give you a thick ear! Do it? I didn't. Get to hell from here!