The Gold-Gated West/Molokai
MOLOKAI
[One of the Hawaiian Islands where the lepers are confined.]
I.
An island at anchor in blue-bosomed seas Is evermore haunting my soul like a dream, And the mystical grace of the slender palm-trees, That lift their light plumes in the indolent breeze, Recurs in my thought, like the strange thread of gold That ran in the woof of the weaver of old; And still shadows lengthen and smooth billows gleam.
II.
Gray peaks that were tossed in the torture of fire Stand bare in the sun, and heroic with scars And sculptures of battle, and anguish and ire, That say in derision, "Be strong and aspire!" Bright seas, bitter-hearted, strike wild on the shore And sing their old anthem, "Deplore and deplore For all that is sorrowful under the stars!"
III.
And touched by the moonlight, their sad faces glow, While low, like the wail of the wind in the pines, Their fitful songs quiver, and broken and slow, Seem lost in the beat of the surges below; As o'er the gilt waters, dream-sweet and afar, Their hearts travel outward, where, lost like a star That fell from their heaven, Owyhee reclines.
IV.
They buy not, they sell not the joy and the care Of living and toiling are theirs nevermore; But, lonesome and weary, and calm with despair, They sing their strange songs and sit braiding their hair, Till day has gone down, and the curtain of light Has passed from the tenderer vision of night, And dim shadows move on the silvering shore.
V.
What reck they of battle or council, or all The hope or endeavor of laboring time! The golden fruit ripens, the white loon will call Where the broad wave is richest and all things befall That stricken souls need in a bountiful isle, Caressed by the sun and bedight with his smile, The blossom and crown of the tropical clime.
VI.
And thus, while the scheming and passionate world Is building and wrecking, and building anew, A strange ship at anchor, her canvas all furled, While suns set in purple, and moon is impearled. Lies low Molokai, and the indolent palm Scarce flutters a plume, for the days are so calm, And Pale Death her grim Captain pale lepers her crew.
VII.
An empire of death! O, the world has not known, In all its great story of trouble and wrong, Another like Molokai, drear and alone, Where Pluto, the hope-slayer, sits on his throne And rules as a tyrant, unchecked in his pride, With none to dispute him and none to deride, And never a traitor in all the sad throng!
VIII.
The red suns wheel over and drown in the sea; Like clustering lilies the white stars decay ; Moons blossom, and wither; but windward or lee No rising sail beckons or bids them be free, Till low-sailing sea-mists, unmasted and pale, Drift over the palm-trees, and drop within hail Of the sorrowing spirits, and waft them away.