What a launching! For a moment,
While the tempest held its breath
And a thousand eyes looked wonder,
Swimming in that trough of death,
Steering seaward through the welter,
Ere they settled out of sight,
Waved above them one gold streamer.
Valor, bid the world good-night!...
Not a trace, while the long summers
Warm the heart of Brittany,
Save one stone of Ys, as remnant,
For a white mark in the sea.
THE KELPIE RIDERS
I
Buried alive in calm Rochelle,
Six in a row by a crystal well,
All Summer long on Bareau Fen
Slumber and sleep the Kelpie men;
By the side of each to cheer his ghost,
A flagon of foam with a crumpet of frost.
Hear me, friends, for the years are fleet;
Soon I leave the noise and the street
For the silent uncompanioned way
Where the inn is cold and the night is gray.
But noon is warm and the world is still
Where the Kelpie riders have their will.
For never a wind dare stir or stray
Over those marshes salt and gray;
No bit of shade as big as your hand
To traverse or trammel the sleeping land,
Save where a dozen poplars fleck
The long gray grass and the well's blue beck.
Yet you mark their leaves are blanched and sear,
Whispering daft at a nameless fear.
While round the hole of one is a rune,
Black in the wash of the bleaching noon.
Pages:
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37