Poems (Jackson)/My Lighthouses

by Helen Hunt Jackson

MY LIGHTHOUSES.

westward window of a palace gray,Which its own secret still so safely keepsThat no man now its builder's name can say,I lie and idly sun myself to-day,Dreaming awake far more than one who sleeps,Serenely glad, although my gladness weeps.

I look across the harbor's misty blue,And find and lose that magic shifting lineWhere sky one shade less blue meets sea, and throughThe air I catch one flush as if it knew Some secret of that meeting, which no signCan show to eyes so far and dim as mine.

More ships than I can count build mast by mastGay lattice-work with waving green and redAcross my window-panes. The voyage past,They crowd to anchorage so glad, so fast,Gliding like ghosts, with noiseless breath and tread,Mooring like ghosts, with noiseless iron and lead.

"O ships and patient men who fare by sea,"I stretch my hands and vainly questioning cry,"Sailed ye from west? How many nights could yeTell by the lights just where my dear and freeAnd lovely land lay sleeping? Passed ye bySome danger safe, because her fires were nigh?"

Ah me! my selfish yearning thoughts forgetHow darkness but a hand's-breadth from the coastWith danger in an evil league is set!Ah! helpless ships and men more helpless vet,Who trust the land-lights' short and empty boast:The lights ye bear aloft and prayers avail ye most.

But I—ah, patient men who fare by sea,Ye would but smile to hear this empty speech,—I have such beacon-lights to burn for me,In that dear west so lovely, new, and free,That evil league by day, by night, can teachNo spell whose harm my little bark can reach.

No towers of stone uphold those beacon-lights;No distance hides them, and no storm can shake;In valleys they light up the darkest nights,They outshine sunny days on sunny heights;They blaze from every house where sleep or wakeMy own who love me for my own poor sake.

Each thought they think of me lights road of flameAcross the seas; no travel on it tiresMy heart. I go if they but speak my name;From Heaven I should come and go the same,And find this glow forestalling my desires.My darlings, do you hear me? Trim the fires!

 Genoa, November 30.