Like wings, the tired sails fluttered down, While night began to fall, Then came, sea-scarred, toward the town, The smallest ship of all.
At last in harbour, safe and still, No more she need be brave, No more she’d meet the winds’ rough will, The wanton of each wave.
The harbour lights! but where the moon Should murmur blessings bright, Clouded instead the dread typhoon, That thundered down the night.
What curse the luring harbour bore Of false security; The port held desolation more Than boasted all the sea.
When morning came with leering lip, What death lay on her breast, And oh! the little weary ship Was wrecked with all the rest.
Grave as a little god, erect and wise, He dares the years that open to his gaze. Brave in his charming beauty, he portrays A bright eternal youth, and in his eyes Sweet moons that are no more. No sad surprise Has gloomed the gay adventure of his ways, And from the flower-lit meadow of the days He leaps clean-hearted to life’s enterprise.
There was a cry from the sky, A cry at night; It wakened the breeze in the trees When the moon was white; And I, only I, Adrift on life’s terrible seas, Read the cry aright.
Pennants of gold were unrolled, They told of sun; Night’s pain with the dark and the rain, Was over and done. The travail of old Had passed from the mother again, And the fight was won.
There was a cry from the sky, And my soul was torn With a passion divine, as of wine, From the breast of morn; For I, only I, Knew the cry as the signal and sign That love was born.
Thais and Lalage, your eyes are closed, Phryne, Aholibah, your lips are dust. Your tinkling feet are idle and composed, All your gold beauty vanished into rust.
Nor Dionysian mysteries taught you this, Since the gold serpent was your seal and sign; Tho’ deathless be the imprint of your kiss, The lips that redden are not yours, but mine.
How you would scorn us, Lalage, the lure Of your mad moments, us, the motley crew; Yet shall your beauty only so endure Imperishable, that we sing of you.
When Tristan sailed from Ireland Across the summer sea, How young he was, how debonnaire, How glad he was and free. Why should he know the gales would blow, The skies be black above, How should he dream his port was Death, And Doom, whose name is Love?