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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=417388" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The William P. Frye</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">I saw her first abreast the Boston Light<br>At anchor; she had just come in, turned head,<br>And sent her hawsers creaking, clattering down.<br>I was so near to where the hawse-pipes fed<br>The cable out from her careening bow,<br>I moved upon the swell, shut steam and lay<br>Hove to in my old launch to look at her.<br>She'd come in light, a-skimming up the Bay<br>Like a white ghost with topsails bellying full;<br>And all her noble lines from bow to stern<br>Made music in the wind; it seemed she rode<br>The morning air like those thin clouds that turn<br>Into tall ships when sunrise lifts the clouds<br>From calm sea-courses.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">There in smoke-smudged coats,<br>Lay funnelled liners, dirty fishing-craft,<br>Blunt cargo-luggers, tugs, and ferry-boats.<br>Oh, it was good in that black-scuttled lot<br>To see the Frye come lording on her way<br>Like some old queen that we had half forgot<br>Come to her own. A little up the Bay<br>The Fort lay green, for it was springtime then;<br>The wind was fresh, rich with the spicy bloom<br>Of the New England coast that tardily<br>Escapes, late April, from an icy tomb.<br>The State-house glittered on old Beacon Hill,<br>Gold in the sun. . . . 'Twas all so fair awhile;<br>But she was fairest - this great square-rigged ship<br>That had blown in from some far happy isle<br>On from the shores of the Hesperides.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">They caught her in a South Atlantic road<br>Becalmed, and found her hold brimmed up with wheat;<br>'Wheat's contraband,' they said, and blew her hull<br>To pieces,murdered one of our staunch fleet,<br>Fast dwindling, of the big old sailing ships<br>That carry trade for us on the high sea<br>And warped out of each horbor in the States.<br>It wasn't law, so it seems strange to me -<br>A big mistake. Her keel's struck bottom now<br>And her four masts sunk fathoms, fathoms deep<br>To Davy Jones. The dank seaweed will root<br>On her oozed decks, and the cross-surges sweep<br>Through the set sails; but never, never more<br>Her crew will stand away to brace and trim,<br>Nor sea-blown petrels meet her thrashing up<br>To windward on the Gulf-Stream's stormy rim;<br>Never again she'll head a no'theast gale<br>Or like a spirit loom up, sliding dumb,<br>And ride in safe beyond the Boston Light,<br>To make the harbor glad because she's home.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Jeanne+Robert+Foster">Jeanne Robert Foster</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=417388" data-title="The William P. Frye de Jeanne Robert Foster" data-description="I saw her first abreast the Boston Light
At anchor; she had just come in, turned head,
And sent her hawsers creaking, clattering down.
I was so near to where the hawse-pipes fed
The cable out from her careening bow,
I moved upon the swell, shut st..."></div>
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