III
Toward thine Eastern window when the morn
Steals through the silver mesh of silent stars,
I come unlaurelled from the strenuous wars
Where men have fought and wept and died
Forlorn.
But here, across the early fields of corn,
The living silence dwelleth, and the gray
Sweet earth-mist, while afar the lisp of spray
Breathes from the ocean like a Triton's horn.
Open thy lattice, for the gage is won
For which this earth has journeyed though the
dust
Of shattered systems, cold about the sun;
And proved by sin, by mighty lives impearled,
A voice cries through the sunrise: "Time is
Just!"--
And falls like dew God's pity on the world
GEORGE CABOT LODGE
THE SONG OF THE WAVE
This is the song of the wave! The mighty one!
Child of the soul of silence, beating the air to
sound:
White as a live terror, as a drawn sword,
This is the wave.
II
This is the song of the wave, the white-maned steed
of the Tempest
Whose veins are swollen with life,
In whose flanks abide the four winds.
This is the wave.
III
This is the song of the wave! The dawn leaped out
of the sea
And the waters lay smooth as a silver shield,
And the sun-rays smote on the waters like a golden
sword.
Then a wind blew out of the morning
And the waters rustled
And the wave was born!
IV
This is the song of the wave! The wind blew out of the noon
And the white sea-birds like driven foam
Winged in from the ocean that lay beyond the sky
And the face of the waters was barred with white,
For the wave had many brothers,
And the wave was strong!
V
This is the song of the wave! The wind blew out
of the sunset
And the west was lurid as Hell.
Pages:
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65