Swift sailing up the river's mouth, Swift tacking north, swift tacking south, He touched the overhanging wood; He tacked his ship; his tall black mast Touched tree-top mosses as he passed; He touched the steep shore where she stood. XIX. Her hands still clasped as if in prayer, Sweet prayer set to silentness; Her sun-browned throat uplifted, bare And beautiful. Her eager face Illumed with love and tenderness, And all her presence gave such grace, Dark shadowed in her cloud of hair, That she seemed more than mortal fair. XX. He saw. He could not speak. No more With lifted glass he sought the sea; No more he watched the wild new shore. Now foes might come, now friends might flee; He could not speak, he would not stir,-- He saw but her, he feared but her. The black ship ground against the shore, She ground against the bank as one With long and weary journeys done, That would not rise to journey more. Yet still this Jason silent stood And gazed against that sun-lit wood, As one whose soul is anywhere. All seemed so fair, so wondrous fair! At last aroused, he stepped to land Like some Columbus. They laid hand On lands and fruits, and rested there. XXI. He found all fairer than fair morn In sylvan land, where waters run With downward leap against the sun, And full-grown sudden May is born. He found her taller than tall corn Tiptoe in tassel; found her sweet As vale where bees of Hybla meet. An unblown rose, an unread book; A wonder in her wondrous eyes; A large, religious, steadfast look Of faith, of trust,--the look of one New welcomed in her Paradise. He read this book,--read on and on From titlepage to colophon: As in cool woods, some summer day, You find delight in some sweet lay, And so entranced read on and on From titlepage to colophon. XXII. And who was he that rested there,-- This Hercules, so huge, so rare, This giant of a grander day, This Theseus of a nobler Greece, This Jason of the golden fleece? And who was he? And who were they That came to seek the hidden gold Long hallowed from the pirate's hold? I do not know. You need not care. . . . . . . They loved, this maiden and this man, And that is all I surely know,-- The rest is as the winds that blow. He bowed as brave men bow to fate, Yet proud and resolute and bold; She, coy at first, and mute and cold, Held back and seemed to hesitate,-- Half frightened at this love that ran Hard gallop till her hot heart beat Like sounding of swift courser's feet. XXIII.