John Greenleaf Whittier (1807–1892). The Poetical Works in Four Volumes. 1892.
Poems of NatureA Sea Dream
W
The curving surf-lines lightly drawn,
The gray rocks touched with tender bloom
Beneath the fresh-blown rose of dawn.
The sombre pomp of showery noons;
And signalled spectral sails that crossed
The weird, low light of rising moons.
We saw the white spray tossed and spurned;
While over all, in gold and red,
Its face of fire the lighthouse turned.
Half curious, half indifferent,
Like passing sails or floating clouds,
We saw them as they came and went.
And watched the mirage-lifted wall
Of coast, across the dreamy bay,
And heard afar the curlew call,
Of airy flock and childish throng,
Up from the water’s edge there came
Faint snatches of familiar song.
Of old and common airs; at last
The tender pathos of his voice
In one low chanson held us fast.
And memories old and sadly sweet;
While, timing to its minor strain,
The waves in lapsing cadence beat.
The waves are glad in breeze and sun;
The rocks are fringed with foam;
I walk once more a haunted shore,
A stranger, yet at home,
A land of dreams I roam.
That stirred thy locks of brown?
Are these the rocks whose mosses knew
The trail of thy light gown,
Where boy and girl sat down?
The boats that rock below;
And, out at sea, the passing sails
We saw so long ago
Rose-red in morning’s glow.
On every breeze is blown;
As glad the sea, as blue the sky,—
The change is ours alone;
The saddest is my own.
Is he who bears my name;
But thou, methinks, whose mortal life
Immortal youth became,
Art evermore the same.
Thy place I cannot see;
I only know that where thou art
The blessed angels be,
And heaven is glad for thee.
Have left on me their sign;
Wash out, O soul so beautiful,
The many stains of mine
In tears of love divine!
If thou wert by my side;
The vision of a shining one,
The white and heavenly bride,
Is well to me denied.
Without the angel’s crown,
The wedded roses of thy lips,
Thy loose hair rippling down
In waves of golden brown.
And let thy sweet shade fall
In tenderest grace of soul and form
On memory’s frescoed wall,
A shadow, and yet all!
Where’er I rest or roam,
Or in the city’s crowded streets,
Or by the blown sea foam,
The thought of thee is home!
At breakfast hour the singer read
The city news, with comment wise,
Like one who felt the pulse of trade
Beneath his finger fall and rise.
The man of action, not of books,
To whom the corners made in gold
And stocks were more than seaside nooks.
His song had hinted unawares;
Of flowers in traffic’s ledgers pressed,
Of human hearts in bulls and bears.
That face so hard and shrewd and strong;
And ears in vain grew sharp to catch
The meaning of that morning song.
To sound him, leaving as she came;
Her baited album only caught
A common, unromantic name.
That trembled on the singer’s tongue;
He came and went, and left no sign
Behind him save the song he sung.