Say, did you not hear a voice of death! And did you not mark the paly form Which rode on the silvery mist of the heath, And sung a ghostly dirge in the storm?
In the long shimmer of the Sound May I some day be laughing found, Part of its restless to and fro, A humble worker of the tides That round the sleepless planet flow,...
There was no song nor shout of joy Nor beam of moon or sun, When she came back from the voyage Long ago begun; But twilight on the waters Was quiet and grey,...
The sky is ruddy in the east, The earth is gray below, And, spectral in the river-mist, The ship's white timbers show. Then let the sounds of measured stroke And grating saw begin;...
Listen, my masters! I speak naught but truth. From dawn to dawn they drifted on and on, Not knowing whither nor to what dark end. Now the North froze them, now the hot South scorched....
"Thou Ship of Earth, with Death, and Birth, and Life, and Sex aboard, And fires of Desires burning hotly in the hold, I fear thee, O! I fear thee, for I hear the tongue and sword...
There was a ship of Rio Sailed out into the blue, And nine and ninety monkeys Were all her jovial crew. From bo'sun to the cabin boy, From quarter to caboose, There weren't a stitch of calico...
This "sentiment" was read on the same occasion as the "Family Record," which immediately follows it. The latter poem is the dutiful tribute of a son to his father and his father's ancestors, residents of Woodstock from its firs...
We hear a great commotion 'Bout the ship that comes to grief, That founders in mid-ocean, Or is driven on a reef; Because it's cheap and brittle A score of sinners drown....
We now, held in captivity, Spring to our bondage nor grieve, See now, how it is blesseder, Brothers, to give than receive! Keep trust, wherefore we were made, Paying the debt that we owe;...
Worthy of either song or story Are the shires round frith of Moray, Here lies the valley of Strathspey, Famed for its music, lively, gay, Elgin cathedral's 'prentice aisle Is glory of that ruined pile....
Near Clapham village, where fields began, Saint Edward met a beggar man. It was Christmas morning, the church bells tolled, The old man trembled for the fierce cold. ...
Thinking of these, of beautiful brief things, Of things that are of sense and spirit made, Of meadow flowers, dense hedges and dark bushes With roses trailing over nests of thrushes; ...
Thou Poet, who, like any lark, Dost whet thy beak and trill From misty morn till murky dark, Nor ever pipe thy fill: Hast thou not, in thy cheery note, One poor chirp to confer -...
Ho! workers of the old time styled The Gentle Craft of Leather! Young brothers of the ancient guild, Stand forth once more together! Call out again your long array, In the olden merry manner!...