Classic Poem

SEA MADNESS

Moon drift and star rift, upon a summer sea,
And the white ship pulses on its breast
Like a silver gull upon her nest,
And the crew dreams cheerily.

But one there sighs, who sits apart,
The wine of youth is in his brain,
The love of youth is in his pain,
And slumber cannot bless his heart.

How fevered is the stiffened lid,
How staring grows the aching ball,
As on the spray drifts comes the call,
Within the sultry breezes hid.

He looks above, he looks below,
To catch the figment that he dreams;
The starlight shadow, substance seems,
The spell binds with a mystic glow.

He hears the breath of heavy sleep;
The guards that pace the silent deck,
And feels the night, whose starry fleck
Looks down to blush upon the deep.

But deeper, stronger, tenderer yet,
The sensuous cadence rises, — falls, —
Such sweets as love to lover calls,
When heart is full and lash is wet.

And he who listens moans with pain;
He loves a maiden sweet and fair,
Who watches for the white sail, where
The strong winds dash across the plain;

He sees the soft hand shade the eyes
That yearn across the solemn deep, —
And then the flax buds droop and weep,
A-weary out of paradise.

How can he hear the mystery
That sways as breezes sway and move, —
The pleading of a woman's love
That burdens heart and sky and sea!

The love of one apart, alone,
Whose senses crave the spicy breath
Of love, then bittersweet, — then death, —
A wooing, rhythmic monotone.

But still the voice and still the plaint,
Through chilly dawn and burning noon,
By gleam of star and bath of moon, —
Until the tensioned pulses faint.

She floats along the vessel's side,
Just where the white bow parts the waves;
She begs, she pleads, she smiles, she raves,
With languid grace, abandoned pride.

Now dies the breeze without a sigh
A-faint upon the drooping sail;
And now the hearts of seamen quail
Beneath a sultry torrid sky.

But still the sad youth dreams apart,
Upon the ocean's glassy calm;
The fever beating in his palm
And throbbing in his anguished heart.

" He sits distraught, " his neighbor said.
" Nay, nay, " said one, " his heart-drops boil;
Marina hath him in her toil, —
Ah! better far that he were dead! " —

" Who may she be? " his neighbor said.
" How now, " said one, " what knowest thou
That knoweth not the tale, I trow! —
Ah! better far that he were dead! " —

They bind him, hands, they bind him, feet,
That frenzy may not work to harm,
With hempen bonds on thigh and arm, —
But still the witching cadence sweet;

Her words are strange, they sigh and croon,
As on his brain their import rests, —
And as she floats, her rounded breasts
Gleam like white lilies in a swoon.

She pleads as one pleads 'neath the rod,
Of love that was, of curse to be,
All in the sultry summer sea, —
She prays as one prays to a god.

Those arms are round and soft and fair,
They reach to him, so white and wet;
Those eyes are lifted, love pained, yet
No tender teardrop twinkles there.

Ay, one word more, — the bonds he breaks,
The winding of the rope he slips, —
The white form at the bowsprit dips, —
And with his cry the calm awakes. —

" Nay, nay, — be still, " his neighbor said;
" Thy promised wife is on the shore,
And counts thy coming o'er and o'er. "
" Nay, nay, " said he, " that love is dead. "

" Thy troth ring's bright, " his neighbor said;
" It lies upon thy maiden's breast,
Who waits thee, for the bridal dressed. "
" Nay, nay, " said he, " that love is dead. "

" So goes the time, " his neighbor said;
" 'Tis but three days if winds were fair —
For thee she waits and watches there. "
" Nay, nay, " said he, " that love is dead. "

He tears her troth ring from his breast
To fling it on the warping deck;
He breaks the chain about his neck,
And thrusts her image from its rest.

Thrice snap the cords like wisps of grass,
Thrice loose the gripping muscles' hold,
Then reaching to the floating gold,
He leaps into the ocean's glass.

Marina's arms are white and wet,
They hold him in a strong embrace;
Her kisses rain on brow and face,
From parted red lips smiling yet.

They grapple him with hooks of steel, —
Marina grasps them with her hand,
And down upon the whitened sand
She laughs beside the moveless keel.

The dead sea wakes, a sudden gale,
Makes bustle on the silent ship.
Her thirsty hot sides bend and dip,
And onward flies the filling sail.

They give the troth ring to the bride
Who waits beside the wind-swept beach;
Her true heart calls, but may not reach
The fateful spot where love had died.

" Pray weep not so, " her neighbors said;
" Another love may comfort thee! "
" No truer love can comfort me, —
I wait my love, he is not dead! " —

She will not don her sombre weeds,
She will not bind her golden hair, —
Love, like hope nimbused, lingers there,
And faith upon her strong heart feeds.

The long days wear, her pulses burn, —
She waits beside the busy ships,
With straining eyes and parted lips
To hear the tidings of return.

Marina's arms are white and wet,
They hold his head upon her breast,
Her red lips to his lips are pressed, —
Her rounded red lips, smiling yet.

What heed the waiting bride to her?
His is the love her love hath won, —
Ay, never more, from sun to sun, —
His heart is cold, he will not stir.

His hovered spirit prays release,
Most like a bubble at her ear;
It pleads of broken faith and fear,
Of silent death and dreamless peace.

Marina's arms are strong and white,
They hold him in her numbing woe;
She will not yield him, let him go,
Through sunless day or starless night;

And gray sails fill and white gulls whir, —
The bride unwedded, waits her love;
Whose prisoned body cannot move,
Or bid his spirit come to her.