And so he talked; Nor did those people listen with more awe To Lazarus--whom they had seen stone dead-- Than did we urchins to that seaman's voice. He many a tale of wonder told: of where, At Argostoli, Cephalonia's sea Ran over the earth's lip in heavy floods; And then again of how the strange Chinese Conversed much as our homely Blackbirds sing. He told us how he sailed in one old ship Near that volcano Martinique, whose power Shook like dry leaves the whole Carribean seas; And made the sun set in a sea of fire Which only half was his; and dust was thick On deck, and stones were pelted at the mast. So, as we walked along, that seaman dropped Into my greedy ears such words that sleep Stood at my pillow half the night perplexed. He told how isles sprang up and sank again, Between short voyages, to his amaze; How they did come and go, and cheated charts; Told how a crew was cursed when one man killed A bird that perched upon a moving barque; And how the sea's sharp needles, firm and strong, Ripped open the bellies of big, iron ships; Of mighty icebergs in the Northern seas, That haunt the far horizon like white ghosts, He told of waves that lift a ship so high That birds could pass from starboard unto port Under her dripping keel. Oh, it was sweet To hear that seaman tell such wondrous tales: How deep the sea in parts, that drowned men Must go a long way to their graves and sink Day after day, and wander with the tides. He spake of his own deeds; of how he sailed One summer's night along the Bosphorus, And he--who knew no music like the wash Of waves against a ship, or wind in shrouds-- Heard then the music on that woody shore Of nightingales, and feared to leave the deck, He thought 'twas sailing into Paradise. To hear these stories all we urchins placed Our pennies in that seaman's ready hand; Until one morn he signed for a long cruise, And sailed away--we never saw him more. Could such a man sink in the sea unknown? Nay, he had found a land with something rich, That kept his eyes turned inland for his life. 'A damn bad sailor and a landshark too, No good in port or out'--my granddad said. DAYS TOO SHORT When primroses are out in Spring, And small, blue violets come between; When merry birds sing on boughs green, And rills, as soon as born, must sing; When butterflies will make side-leaps, As though escaped from Nature's hand Ere perfect quite; and bees will stand Upon their heads in fragrant deeps; When small clouds are so silvery white Each seems a broken rimmed moon-- When such things are, this world too soon, For me, doth wear the veil of Night. IN MAY