Thou, thou wert built for me,
Strong lily of the sea!
Thou cans't not choose,
The calling of my low voice to refuse;
And if Death
Were the sole, sad, wailing burthen of my breath,
Thy timbers at my call,
Would shudder in their thrall,
Thy sails outburst to touch my stormy lip;
Like a giant quick in a grave,
Thy anchor heave,
And close upon my thunder-pulsing breast, O ship,
Thou would'st tremble, nor repine,
That being mine,
Thy spars,
Like long pale lights of falling stars,
Plunged in the Stygian blackness of the sea,
And to billowy ruin cast
Thy tall and taper mast,
Rushed shrieking headlong down to an abyss.
O ship! O love! if Death
Were such sure portion, thou could'st not refuse
But thou would'st choose
As mine to die, and call such choosing bliss;
For thou for me
Wert plann'd from all eternity!"
THE GHOSTS OF THE TREES.
The silver fangs of the mighty axe,
Bit to the blood of our giant boles;
It smote our breasts and smote our backs,
Thunder'd the front-cleared leaves--
As sped in fire,
The whirl and flame of scarlet leaves
With strong desire
Leaped to the air our captive souls.
While down our corpses thunder'd,
The air at our strong souls gazed and wondered
And cried to us, "Ye
Are full of all mystery to me!
I saw but thy plumes of leaves,
Thy strong, brown greaves;
The sinewy roots and lusty branches,
And fond and anxious,
I laid my ear and my restless breast
By each pride-high crest;
And softly stole
And listen'd by limb and listen'd by bole,
Nor ever the stir of a soul,
Heard I in ye--
Great is the mystery!"
The strong, brown eagle plung'd from his peak,
From the hollow iron of his beak;
The wood pigeon fell; its breast of blue
Cold with sharp death all thro' and thro',
To our ghosts he cried.
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