Fox Footprints/The Coolie Ship
The Coolie Ship
Across the huddled forms, each wrapped in its blanket,
Lying in the dim light drifted with the smoke of opium pipes,
Fetid with close-packed life,
Sound the broken notes of a crude and primitive flute.
The waves strike the ship which rocks and tosses,
The weary figures are torpid, each beside its bundle,
The stars swing and sway as though weighted to strings,
The tired engines gasp and strain against the sea—
They beat quick and uneven like the heart of a dying man.
Lying in the dim light drifted with the smoke of opium pipes,
Fetid with close-packed life,
Sound the broken notes of a crude and primitive flute.
The waves strike the ship which rocks and tosses,
The weary figures are torpid, each beside its bundle,
The stars swing and sway as though weighted to strings,
The tired engines gasp and strain against the sea—
They beat quick and uneven like the heart of a dying man.
Yet across the troubled ship, losing itself in the hugeness of sky and sea
The Chinese flute breathes its broken song into the night.
The Chinese flute breathes its broken song into the night.