Page:Poet Lore, volume 27, 1916.djvu/132

Warriors, not courtiers you,
Your courting season through,—
Dotterel darts, befeathered sober,
Mellowed with yellow by brisk October,
Who, from his Nova Scotian post,
Hurls you over the swirled Atlantic—
Hurls you, pipers corybantic—
Straight for the Venezuelan coast:
Two thousand miles! Two thousand miles!
While the gods of Air crowd heaven’s aisles,
With loud-fleered taunts for the vaunting boast
That man is peer of their wing-born host.

“Aie! . . . Aie! . . . Aie! . . . ”
Moans the rancorous Sheol of winds.
Out of the ooze of the sulphurous Gulf
Springs into fury the Mocker of Masts,
Snarls through the Caribs and harries with blasts:
Shrieking seeks you, sprites from the North;
Ruffles and buffets you, grapples to check you;
With maniac might would baffle and wreck you
But for the froth of sabre-reefed isles
Which, faint through the smoke of desolate miles,
Whispers, encourages, beckons you forth,
Calls you to fall from the maelstrom of wiles:
“Oh-èh! . . . Oh-èh! . . .Oh-èh! . . .
Safety we promise and shelter and rest
From the howling Fiend of the foul Southwest!”
Out of the fray of reeking grey
Whines the cheated Harpy of winds:
“Aie! . . . Aie! . . . Aie! . . .”
 
On the shoulder of Night expires her rage;
So melts to calm the ocean's wrath:
Day blooms like a rose on a beryl path
In the Garden of Peace of the Golden Age.

Wee-o-wee! Wee-o-wee! Wee-o -wee!
Joy but no peace for you, golden plover:
Only in June may you play the lover,
Satined in wooing black and gold.
Till then the leagues that you will cover,—