Poems of Nature (Whittier)/A Sea Dream
A SEA DREAM.
We saw the slow tides go and come,The curving surf-lines lightly drawn,The gray rocks touched with tender bloomBeneath the fresh-blown rose of dawn.
We saw in richer sunsets lostThe sombre pomp of showery noons;And signalled spectral sails that crossedThe weird, low light of rising moons.
On stormy eves from cliff and headWe saw the white spray tossed and spurned;While over all, in gold and red,Its face of fire the lighthouse turned.
The rail-car brought its daily crowds,Half curious, half indifferent,Like passing sails or floating clouds,We saw them as they came and went.
But, one calm morning, as we layAnd watched the mirage-lifted wallOf coast, across the dreamy bay,And heard afar the curlew call,
And nearer voices, wild or tame,Of airy flock and childish throng,Up from the water's edge there cameFaint snatches of familiar song.
Careless we heard the singer's choiceOf old and common airs; at lastThe tender pathos of his voiceIn one low chanson held us fast.
A song that mingled joy and pain,And memories old and sadly sweet;While, timing to its minor strain,The waves in lapsing cadence beat.
The waves are glad in breeze and sun;The rocks are fringed with foam;I walk once more a haunted shore,A stranger, yet at home,—A land of dreams I roam.
The waves are glad in breeze and sun;The rocks are fringed with foam;I walk once more a haunted shore,A stranger, yet at home,—A land of dreams I roam.
Is this the wind, the soft sea-wind,That stirred thy locks of brown?Are these the rocks whose mosses knewThe trail of thy light gown,Where boy and girl sat down?
I see the gray fort's broken wall,The boats that rock below;And, out at sea, the passing sailsWe saw so long agoRose-red in morning's glow.
The freshness of the early timeOn every breeze is blown;As glad the sea, as blue the sky,—The change is ours alone;The saddest is my own.
A stranger now, a world-worn man,Is he who bears my name;But thou, methinks, whose mortal lifeImmortal youth became,evermore the same.
Thou art not here, thou art not there,Thy place I cannot see;I only know that where thou artThe blessed angels be,And heaven is glad for thee.
Forgive me if the evil yearsHave left on me their sign;Wash out, O soul so beautiful,The many stains of mineIn tears of love divine!
I could not look on thee and live,If thou wert by my side;The vision of a shining one,The white and heavenly bride,Is well to me denied.
But turn to me thy dear girl-faceWithout the angel's crown,The wedded roses of thy lips,Thy loose hair rippling downIn waves of golden brown.
Look forth once more through space and time,And let thy sweet shade fallIn tenderest grace of soul and formOn memory's frescoed wall.A shadow, and yet all!
Draw near, more near, forever dear!Where'er I rest or roam,Or in the city's crowded streets,Or by the blown sea foam,The thought of thee is home!
At breakfast hour the singer readThe city news, with comment wise,Like one who felt the pulse of tradeBeneath his finger fall and rise.
At breakfast hour the singer readThe city news, with comment wise,Like one who felt the pulse of tradeBeneath his finger fall and rise.
His look, his air, his curt speech, toldThe man of action, not of books,To whom the corners made in goldAnd stocks were more than seaside nooks.
Of life beneath the life confessedHis song had hinted unawares;Of flowers in traffic's ledgers pressed,Of human hearts in bulls and bears.
But eyes in vain were turned to watchThat face so hard and shrewd and strong;And ears in vain grew sharp to catchThe meaning of that morning song.
In vain some sweet-voiced querist soughtTo sound him, leaving as she came;Her baited album only caughtA common, unromantic name.
No word betrayed the mystery fineThat trembled on the singer's tongue;He came and went, and left no signBehind him, save the song he sung.