The Winged Mariners
Through the wild night, the silence and the dark,
Through league on league of the uncharted sky,
Lonelier than dove of fable from its ark,
The fieldfares fly.
Mate with his tiny mate, and younglings frail,
That only knew the crevice of their tree
Until, in faith stupendous, they set sail
Across the sea.
The black North Sea, that takes such savage toll
Of ships and men - and yet could not appal
These little mariners, who seek their goal
Beyond it all.
Turning those soft, indomitable breasts
To meet the unchained Titans of the deep -
Calm, as if cradled in Norwegian nests,
Their course they keep.
No more than thistledown or flake of snow
To those great gods at play, they win the game;
Never sped archer's arrow from his bow
With surer aim.
Still tossed and scattered, their unwinking eyes
Point to that pole unseen where wanderings cease;
Still on they press, and warble to the skies
With hearts at peace.
Scenting the English morning in the air,
Through the salt night, ere any morning wakes -
The perfumed fields, the dun woods, sere and bare,
The brambly brakes -
The well-loved orchard, with its hawthorn hedge,
Where luscious berries, red and brown, are found -
The misty miles of water-mead and sedge
Where gnats abound.
. . . . .
But what is this, 'twixt sea and surf-bound shore?
What form stands there, amid the shadows gray,
With flaming blade that smites them as they soar,
And bars their way?
Hushed are the twittering throats; each silken head
Turns to the voiceless siren - turns and stares -
By some strange lure of mystery and dread
Caught unawares.
[...] Read more
poem by Ada Cambridge
Added by Poetry Lover
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