The Return of Morgan and Fingal
And there we were together again—
Together again, we three:
Morgan, Fingal, fiddle, and all,
They had come for the night with me.
The spirit of joy was in Morgan’s wrist,
There were songs in Fingal’s throat;
And secure outside, for the spray to drench,
Was a tossed and empty boat.
And there were the pipes, and there was the punch,
And somewhere were twelve years;
So it came, in the manner of things unsought,
That a quick knock vexed our ears.
The night wind hovered and shrieked and snarled,
And I heard Fingal swear;
Then I opened the door—but I found no more
Than a chalk-skinned woman there.
I looked, and at last, “What is it?” I said—
“What is it that we can do?”
But never a word could I get from her
But “You—you three—it is you!”
Now the sense of a crazy speech like that
Was more than a man could make;
So I said, “But we—we are what, we three?”
And I saw the creature shake.
“Be quick!” she cried, “for I left her dead—
And I was afraid to come;
But you, you three—God made it be—
Will ferry the dead girl home.
“Be quick! be quick!—but listen to that
Who is that makes it?—hark!”
But I heard no more than a knocking splash
And a wind that shook the dark.
“It is only the wind that blows,” I said,
“And the boat that rocks outside.”
And I watched her there, and I pitied her there—
“Be quick! be quick!” she cried.
She cried so loud that her voice went in
To find where my two friends were;
So Morgan came, and Fingal came,
And out we went with her.
’T was a lonely way for a man to take
And a fearsome way for three;
And over the water, and all day long,
They had come for the night with me.
But the girl was dead, as the woman had said,
And the best we could see to do
Was to lay her aboard. The north wind roared,
And into the night we flew.
Four of us living and one for a ghost,
Furrowing crest and swell,
Through the surge and the dark, for that faint far spark,
We ploughed with Azrael.
Three of us ruffled and one gone mad,
Crashing to south we went;
And three of us there were too spattered to care
What this late sailing meant.
So down we steered and along we tore
Through the flash of the midnight foam:
Silent enough to be ghosts on guard.
We ferried the dead girl home.
We ferried her down to the voiceless wharf,
And we carried her up to the light;
And we left the two to the father there,
Who counted the coals that night.
Then back we steered through the foam again,
But our thoughts were fast and few;
And all we did was to crowd the surge
And to measure the life we knew;—
Till at last we came where a dancing gleam
Skipped out to us, we three,—
And the dark wet mooring pointed home
Like a finger from the sea.
Then out we pushed the teetering skiff
And in we drew to the stairs;
And up we went, each man content
With a life that fed no cares.
Fingers were cold and feet were cold,
And the tide was cold and rough;
But the light was warm, and the room was warm,
And the world was good enough.
And there were the pipes, and there was the punch,
More shrewd than Satan’s tears:
Fingal had fashioned it, all by himself,
With a craft that comes of years.
And there we were together again—
Together again, we three:
Morgan, Fingal, fiddle, and all,
They were there for the night with me.
poem by Edwin Arlington Robinson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
An Open Boat
O, what is that whimpering there in the darkness?
'Let him lie in my arms. He is breathing, I know.
Look. I'll wrap all my hair round his neck' - 'The sea's rising,
The boat must be lightened. He's dead. He must go.'
See - quick - by that flash, where the bitter foam tosses,
The cloud of white faces, in the black open boat,
And the wild pleading woman that clasps her dead lover
And wraps her loose hair round his breast and his throat.
'Come, lady, he's dead.' - 'No, I feel his heart beating,
He's living, I know. But he's numbed with the cold.
See, I'm wrapping my hair all around him to warm him.' -
- 'No. We can't keep the dead, dear. Come, loosen your hold.
'Come. Loosen your fingers.' - ' O God, let me keep him!' -
O, hide it, black night! Let the winds have their way!
And there are no voices or ghosts from that darkness,
To fret the bare seas at the breaking of day.
poem by Alfred Noyes
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The Watcher on the Tower
I
The Voice of a Man
WHAT of the Night, O Watcher?
The Voice of a Woman
Yea, what of it?
The Watcher
A star has risen; and a wind blows strong.
Voice of the Man
The Night is dark.
The Watcher
But God is there above it.
Voice of the Woman
The Night is dark; the Night is dark and long.
II
Voice of the Man
What of the Night, O Watcher?
Voice of the Woman
Night of sorrow!
The Watcher
Out of the East there comes a sound, like song.
Voice of the Man
The Night is dark.
The Watcher
Have courage! There’s To-morrow!
Voice of the Woman
The Night is dark; the Night is dark and long.
III
Voice of the Man
What of the Night, O Watcher?
Voice of the Woman
Is it other?
The Watcher
I see a gleam; a thorn of light; a thong.
Voice of the Man
The Night is dark.
The Watcher
The Morning comes, my Brother.
Voice of the Woman
The Night is dark; the Night is dark and long.
IV
Voice of the Man
What now, what now, O Watcher?
The Watcher
Red as slaughter
The Darkness dies. The Light comes swift and strong.
Voice of the Man
The Night was long.—What sayest thou, my Daughter?
Voice of the Woman
The Night was dark; the Night was dark and long.
poem by Madison Julius Cawein
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A little Ghost Story
As I was going to bed
I turned out my light
tucked myself in
on a long winter's night
All of a sudden
I heard a door squeak
I thought someone was in my house
so I decided to take a peak
I heard the wind blow hard
and started to shiver with fear
and heard some noises again
but this time I knew I was near
I went into the living room
and noticed my door was opened wide
squeaking back and forth
I laughed so hard I almost cried
So I decided to go back up to my room
When I heard some terrible cries
I rushed to my room real quick
but a ghost stopped me in surprise
I ran and yelled
and I ran outside my house right then
and decided I would never
go back to that house again
At my new house
I turned out the light
you can probably guess
what went on that night
poem by Shaina Lloyd
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Single Candle Light
The warm glow of a single candle flame
beckons a weary stranger there
to the bosom of a warm fire in
from the nighttime's cold.
A warm caring heart keeps the candle lit
to welcome back their love
from their long and lonely trek.
Each night they light the candle,
and sit waiting all alone,
hoping one night their love,
will glance on it
and return to their loving home.
The warm stretching finger
prods the darkness every night,
as it can be seen from miles away
across the empty prairie,
as they sit alone each night
by the warm fair light.
Hoping that their love will see its warm glow
and return to it and come home tonight
from their long and weary trek.
For years, the candle was lit,
but sadly, it shines no more.
Love broke the lonely heart
when they never came home.
Now all you can hear is a lonesome whistle
when the wind blows cold at night.
It has replaced that warm glow
of that single candle light.
poem by David Harris
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Red Light
Red Light"
[talking:]
It's crazy
I can't believe that you
Would be the one to do
Do me like you do
Get back here baby
[verse 1]
Girl you let me
Have my way and i was thinkin i could get it again
Baby we could be friends if you only (ssh)
And you show me
Just how quick your tires could spin
You were off in the wind
Tell me were did you go
[hook 1]
When you left (oh)
I'm thinkin which way did she go
I should have known that you would lead me on girl
Im in the wind on cruise control
I gotta be dreamin cuz i never felt like this before
[chorus]
It was supposed to be
Just a one night
In and out and im out the door
But she's got me sittin here
At the red light
Drivin round lookin out for her
It was supposed to be
Just a one night
In and out and im out the door
So why am i sittin here
At the red light
Drivin round lookin out for her
Lookin out for her
[verse 2]
Now its rainin
And i'm lookin over at the passenger side
Thinkin back in my mind how you set me off
She was stoppin and droppin me
Switchin from fast to slow
But that aint have nothing on how you got
When i got you home
[hook 2]
When you left (oh)
I'm thinkin which way did she go
The way you touched yourself
Had me up the wall
Im in the wind on cruise control
I'm searchin for you cuz i can't seem to let you go
[chorus]
[talking]
You know
I really only thought
That this would be a one night stand
What you doin to me
Come on
What you doin to me
[bridge]
Maybe (maybe)
She's runnin home to someone else (someone else)
Or maybe (or maybe)
She lost my number in her cell
(oooh babe)
(what you doin to me)
Or maybe (or maybe)
She's never done like this before
Cuz i cant see (can't see)
Her not comin back for more
More
[chorus 2X]
song performed by by Usher
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Voice On The Wind
I
She walks with the wind on the windy height
When the rocks are loud and the waves are white,
And all night long she calls through the night,
'O my children, come home!'
Her bleak gown, torn as a tattered cloud,
Tosses around her like a shroud,
While over the deep her voice rings loud,-
'O my children, come home, come home!
O my children, come home!'
II
Who is she who wanders alone,
When the wind drives sheer and the rain is blown?
Who walks all night and makes her moan,
'O my children, come home!'
Whose face is raised to the blinding gale;
Whose hair blows black and whose eyes are pale,
While over the world goes by her wail,-
'O my children, come home, come home!
O my children, come home!'
III
She walks with the wind in the windy wood;
The dark rain drips from her hair and hood,
And her cry sobs by, like a ghost pursued,
'O my children, come home!'
Where the trees loom gaunt and the rocks stretch drear,
The owl and the fox crouch back with fear,
As wild through the wood her voice they hear,-
'O my children, come home, come home!
O my children, come home!'
IV
Who is she who shudders by
When the boughs blow bare and the dead leaves fly?
Who walks all night with her wailing cry,
'O my children, come home!'
Who, strange of look, and wild of tongue,
With wan feet wounded and hands wild-wrung,
Sweeps on and on with her cry, far-flung,-
'O my children, come home, come home!
O my children, come home!'
V
'Tis the Spirit of Autumn, no man sees,
The mother of Death and of Mysteries,
Who cries on the wind all night to these,
'O my children, come home!'
The Spirit of Autumn, pierced with pain,
Calling her children home again,
Death and Dreams, through ruin and rain,-
'O my children, come home, come home!
O my children, come home!'
poem by Madison Julius Cawein
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Cold Feet
There was a little boy once upon a time
Who in spite of his young age and small size knew his mind
For every copper penny and clover he would find
Make a wish for better days the end of hard times
For no more cold feet
Cold cold cold cold feet
His clothes were always clean
His face was always scrubbed
There was food on the table enough to fill him up
His house was full of life - his house was full of love
But when winter days arrived
There was never money enough to shod his cold feet
Cold cold cold cold feet
He grew up to be a worker determined to succeed
He made a life for himself, free from worldly wants or needs
But with nobody to share the life hed made
No body to keep him warm at night
When hed go to sleep hed sleep alone with his cold feet
Cold cold cold cold feet
One night he walked the street looking to the heavens above
Searching for a shooting star a benevolent god
When a woman passing by brushed his arm
He turned and found love
He then wished for the courage to ask this stranger
Who she was to not have cold feet
Cold cold cold cold feet
He thought shed like the party life and want the finer things
So he promised more than he could buy
And he promised her the sun and moon to not have cold feet
Cold cold cold cold feet
He worked day and night his fingers to the bone
Hi worried mind guilty conscience drive him on
He cant give her what she needs
He wants to give her what he thinks she wants
Her sad-eyed face, his empty pockets drive him on and his cold feet
Cold cold cold cold feet
Hed struggled all his life to be an honest man
Proud that the dirt on his palms was the soil of the land
But some guys he knew from high school days
Said they had a plan to get rich quick
And they could count him in if he dont have cold feet
Cold cold cold cold feet
He thought about their offer accepted it without qualms
Dreamt about the life hed buy
The comfort that would come without cold feet
Cold cold cold cold feet
He decided to tell his wife things would soon turn around
He said the little boy is dead
A man stands with you now without cold feet
Cold cold cold cold feet
Without cold feet - cold cold cold cold feet
He thought hed set his clock right - he though hed read his watch
He left in such a hurry he didnt think to wish for luck
Makes no difference if youre early - no difference if youre late
When youre out of time - the flowers have been laid
Youre six feet underground
With cold feet
Cold cold cold cold feet
song performed by by Tracy Chapman
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Ceyx And Alcione lV
Poor Alcione was sick with grief and couldn't sleep or eat, which was partly ok because she felt she was getting fat. But the insomnia was tough. Night after night she lay awake, praying. She fasted, lit candles and burned certain leaves that she bought off a witch. In those days they didn't have email or even telephones, which was fine in many ways. The queen of the Gods, Juno, heard her. Unable to bear it any longer (Ceyx being dead) she said to her secretary:
'Iris, this has got to stop. The poor girl. Quick, a dream. Tell her the truth-her husband sleeps with the fishes. And be quick, please.'
'Yes, M'am, ' replied Iris, sulkily. She was young and very pretty and had better things to do with her time than run messages for Juno, but she didn't complain and started off for the house of Alcione with a starfish-shaped dream in her pocketbook.
'Why me, ' she sighed, under her breath, as she left. On the way she stopped in Arizona to pick up Sleep, who having spent the last ten years dozing on his right side, had recently shifted to his left.
That night Alcione had-what else-a dream. She dreamed she was lying on the dark sea floor, the weight of all the waves oppressing her chest. When she woke she spotted Sleep at the foot of the bed. He had taken the shape of her drowned husband. He didn't look so good. Seawater oozed from every pore, like a sponge. Algaes and sea-lilies tangled in his hair. An eel coiled its heavy lenghs around his shoulders and neck. He was completely naked, having shed his clothes when the ship began to sink. He stood in a rapidly growing puddle of brine and when he first opened his mouth to speak, out came a stream of minnows. Her heart was seized with pity and terror. Over her prostrate form he leaned and said:
'My dearest Alcione, my own, I am dead and beyond your unavailing tears. I will never come back. In my triall I thought only of you. The last word of my lips was your name.
With that she knew he was dead. The next day....
poem by Morgan Michaels
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Night
He cried out through the night:
"Where is the light?
Shall nevermore
Open Heaven's door?
Oh, I am left
Lonely, bereft!"
He cried out through the night:
It spread vaguely white,
With its ghost of a moon
Above the dark swoon
Of the earth lying chill,
Breathless, grave still.
He cried out through the night:
His voice in its might
Rang forth far and far,
And then like a star
Dwindled from sense
In the Immense.
He cried out through the night:
No answering light,
No syllabled sound;
Beneath and around
A long shuddering thrill
Then all again still.
poem by James Thomson
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In A Cold Wind
In a cold wind
in a night wind,
under a yellow street-light,
its paleness and the dark night.
Leaves blown past,
down the wind, cast
onto the silent roadway,
or in heaps, on the footway.
The houses that rise
into grey skies,
windows with drawn curtains,
facing onto pale gardens.
Slow in the sky,
the clouds moving by;
on the ground, the shadows blurred,
the whistling wind heard.
And the wind that blows
comes not, nor goes.
In this night, its sound
wraps all around.
Not here alone,
its long low drone,
along endless fences and hedges,
insidiously edges.
Now is the hour,
now is the closing of the flower,
an end to approaching and retreating,
to losing and defeating,
in a cold wind,
in a night wind,
on a corner of a cold street,
where all directions meet.
poem by Rory Hudson
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The night winds
The night winds say~
'You shoulda' stayed, girl'
The night wind cries,
'You shouldn't have left, girl'
And the night winds say,
'He could've been your rock, girl'
The night winds softly bellows
'He was the one for you'
The night winds say
'I wouldn't have left your side, girl.'
The night winds cries demandingly
'You're gonna miss me in the morning, girl.'
When you feel this night wind—
It will clearly say to you;
'We are lonely, dear one
I miss him…we shouldn't have left him, '
And your night wind
Will [be]come cold without me…..
poem by Shean Davis
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The Little Match Girl
It was biting cold, and the falling snow,
Which filled a poor little match girl's heart with woe,
Who was bareheaded and barefooted, as she went along the street,
Crying, "Who'll buy my matches? for I want pennies to buy some meat!"
When she left home she had slippers on;
But, alas! poor child, now they were gone.
For she lost both of them while hurrying across the street,
Out of the way of two carriages which were near by her feet.
So the little girl went on, while the snow fell thick and fast;
And the child's heart felt cold and downcast,
For nobody had bought any matchea that day,
Which filled her little mind with grief and dismay.
Alas! she was hungry and shivering with cold;
So in a corner between two houses she made bold
To take shelter from the violent storm.
Poor little waif! wishing to herself she'd never been born.
And she grew colder and colder, and feared to go home
For fear of her father beating her; and she felt woe-begone
Because she could carry home no pennies to buy bread,
And to go home without pennies she was in dread.
The large flakes of snow covered her ringlets of fair hair;
While the passers-by for her had no care,
As they hurried along to their homes at a quick pace,
While the cold wind blew in the match girl's face.
As night wore on her hands were numb with cold,
And no longer her strength could her uphold,
When an idea into her little head came:
She'd strike a match and warm her hands at the flame.
And she lighted the match, and it burned brightly,
And it helped to fill her heart with glee;
And she thought she was sitting at a stove very grand;
But, alas! she was found dead, with a match in her hand!
Her body was found half-covered with snow,
And as the people gazed thereon their hearts were full of woe;
And many present let fall a burning tear
Because she was found dead on the last night of the year,
In that mighty city of London, wherein is plenty of gold -
But, alas! their charity towards street waifs is rather cold.
But I hope the match girl's in Heaven, beside her Saviour dear,
A bright reward for all the hardships she suffered here.
poem by William Topaz McGonagall
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The Lake of the Dismal Swamp
'THEY made her a grave too cold and damp
For a soul so warm and true;
And she's gone to the Lake of the Dismal Swamp,
Where all night long, by a firefly lamp,
She paddles her white canoe.
And her firefly lamp I soon shall see,
And her paddle I soon shall hear;
Long and moving our life shall be
And I'll hide the maid in a cypress tree,
When the footstep of death is near.'
Away to the Dismal Swamp he speeds, -
His path was rugged and sore,
Through tangled juniper, beds of reeds,
Through many a fen where the serpent feeds,
And man never trod before.
And when on the earth he sank to sleep,
If slumber his eyelids knew,
He lay where the deadly vine doth weep
Its venemous tear, and nightly steep
The flesh with blistering dew!
And near him the she-wolf stirr'd the brake,
And the copper-snake breathed in his ear,
Till he starting cried, from his dream awake,
'Oh when shall I see the dusky Lake,
And the white canoe of my dear?'
He saw the Lake, and a meteor bright
Quick over its surface play'd, -
'Welcome,' he said, 'my dear one's light!'
And the dim shore echo'd for many a night
The name of the death-cold maid.
Till he hollow'd a boat of the birchen bark,
Which carried him off from the shore;
Far, far he follow'd the meteor spark,
The wind was high and the clouds were dark,
And the boat return'd no more.
But oft, from the Indian hunter's camp,
This lover and maid so true
Are seen at the hour of midnight damp
To cross the Lake by a firefly lamp,
And paddle their white canoe!
poem by Thomas Moore
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Cold Chill
Feelin young and full of fun
Hangin out with my crew
Hot to trot and about to pop
Tryin to find some girl to get into
There she was fine as can be
Hair braided down to her knees
She took me home, she turned me out
But before sunrise she said I must leave
It was a cold chill on a summer night
Never thought the girlie wouldnt treat me right
It was a cold chill on a summer day
Never thought the girl would dog me out that way
It was a cold chill on a summer morn
Never cried like a baby since the day I was born
It was a cold chill on a summer eve
Never had no chopper bring me to my knees
I was feeling so trusting
Gave it all right down to the bone
But she did me wrong
On a summer night
Far from meek, and feelin chic
Refusing to concede defeat
There I was same crew, same time
Same club we kicked it at the previous week
I asked her how could she have the nerve
To treat me with such disgrace
She blinked her eyes, smiled, apologized
Threw her drink right in my face
It was a cold chill on a summer night
Never thought the girlie wouldnt treat me right
It was a cold chill on a summer day
Never thought the girl would dog me out that way
It was a cold chill on a summer morn
Never cried like a baby since the day I was born
It was a cold chill on a summer eve
Never had no chopper bring me to my knees
I was feeling so trusting
Gave it all right down to the bone
But she did me wrong
On a summer night, on a summer night
On a summer night, on a summer night
A cold chill, a cold chill, a cold chill, cold chill
Weekends came and weekends passed
But not the yearning in my heart
And there she was to light the spark
Like she did right from the very start
I took no time, drove to her house
Got deep into a passion high
I heard a knock, the turn of a key
And the voice of another guy
It was a cold chill on a summer night
Never thought the girlie wouldnt treat me right
It was a cold chill on a summer day
Never thought the girl would dog me out that way
It was a cold chill on a summer morn
Never cried like a baby since the day I was born
It was a cold chill on a summer eve
Never had no chopper bring me to my knees
I was feeling so trusting
Gave it all right down to the bone
But she did me wrong
On a summer night, on a summer night
On a summer night, on a summer night
It was a cold chill
Like standing in the deep freeze
A cold chill
Like when snows above your knees
Cold chill
Like sitting at the north pole
A cold chill
Wearing not one stitch of clothes
Cold chill
Like a winter chicago night
A cold chill
Twenty ice cubes down your back for spite
Cold chill
Stranded in sub-zero degrees
A cold chill
Layed out on the arctic sea
Cold chill
When your fingers get frost bite
A cold chill
Buried beneath ten feet of ice
Cold chill
Baby, that aint so nice
A cold chill
song performed by by Stevie Wonder
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Light In The Window
Rain and wind and candlelight
And let us pray a prayer to-night:
For every soul, since life is brief,
Little of trouble and less of grief.
And set a light at the windowpane,
To guide Love home through the night and rain.
Rain and wind and candlelight
And what shall we pray again to-night?
For every life, whose way is dim,
The grace of God and trust in Him.
A word, a song, till the tears be dried,
And Faith and Hope sit down beside.
Rain and wind and candlelight
And one last prayer to pray to-night:
For every heart in the dark and rain
To know its prayer is not in vain:
A door flung wide, and a face aglow
Love come back from the Long-Ago.
Then let the rain and the wind without
Threaten their worst and rave and shout:
For who will care, though the night is black
Love to his own has wandered back.
Has wandered back through the rain and night,
Led home again by her candle's light.
poem by Madison Julius Cawein
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Havana Moon
Chant...
Me all alone
Jug of rum
Me stand and wait for the boat to come
Is lonely night is quiet the dark
The boat she late its 12 o clock
Me watches the tide easin in
Is low the moon and high the wind
Havana moon
Havana moon
Me all alone
Me open the rum
Is long the wait for the boat to come
American girl come back to me
Sail way across the sea
We dock in new york the buildings high
We find a home up in the sky
Havana moon...
Havana moon...
Me still alone me drinkin the rum
Begin to think that the boat no come
American girl she tell a lie
She say till then, but she mean goodbye
Havana moon...
Havana moon...
Me lay down alone, no good the rum
Me fall asleep and the boat she come
The girl she look till come the dawn
She weep and she cry
Return for home
The whistle blow me open my eyes
Bright the sun blue the sky
Me grab me shoes, me jump and me run
Me see the boat head for horizon
Havana moon is gone da rum
The boat she sail me love she gone
Havana moon...
Havana moon...
song performed by by Santana
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Night Of Trafalgar
In the wild October night-time, when the wind raved round the
land,
And the Back-sea met the front-sea, and our doors were blocked
with sand,
And we heard the drub of dead-man's bay, where the bones of
thousands are,
We knew not what the day had done for us at Trafalgar.
Had done,
Had done,
For us at Trafalgar!
'Pull hard, and make the nothe, or down we go!' One says,
says he.
We pulled; and bedtime brought the storm; but snug at home
slept we.
Yet all the while our gallants after fighting through the day,
Were beating up and down the dark, sou'west of Cadiz Bay.
The dark,
The dark,
Sou'west of Cadiz Bay!
The victors and the vanquished then the storm it tossed and tore,
As hard they strove, those worn-out men, upon that surly shore;
Dead Nelson and his half dead crew, his foes from near and far,
Were rolled together on the deep that night at Trafalgar!
The deep,
The deep,
That night at Trafalgar!
poem by Thomas Hardy
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Athabaska Dick
When the boys come out from Lac Labiche in the lure of the early Spring,
To take the pay of the "Hudson's Bay", as their fathers did before,
They are all a-glee for the jamboree, and they make the Landing ring
With a whoop and a whirl, and a "Grab your girl", and a rip and a skip and a roar.
For the spree of Spring is a sacred thing, and the boys must have their fun;
Packer and tracker and half-breed Cree, from the boat to the bar they leap;
And then when the long flotilla goes, and the last of their pay is done,
The boys from the banks of Lac Labiche swing to the heavy sweep.
And oh, how they sigh! and their throats are dry, and sorry are they and sick:
Yet there's none so cursed with a lime-kiln thirst as that Athabaska Dick.
He was long and slim and lean of limb, but strong as a stripling bear;
And by the right of his skill and might he guided the Long Brigade.
All water-wise were his laughing eyes, and he steered with a careless care,
And he shunned the shock of foam and rock, till they came to the Big Cascade.
And here they must make the long portage, and the boys sweat in the sun;
And they heft and pack, and they haul and track, and each must do his trick;
But their thoughts are far in the Landing bar, where the founts of nectar run:
And no man thinks of such gorgeous drinks as that Athabaska Dick.
'Twas the close of day and his long boat lay just over the Big Cascade,
When there came to him one Jack-pot Jim, with a wild light in his eye;
And he softly laughed, and he led Dick aft, all eager, yet half afraid,
And snugly stowed in his coat he showed a pilfered flask of "rye".
And in haste he slipped, or in fear he tripped, but -- Dick in warning roared --
And there rang a yell, and it befell that Jim was overboard.
Oh, I heard a splash, and quick as a flash I knew he could not swim.
I saw him whirl in the river swirl, and thresh his arms about.
In a queer, strained way I heard Dick say: "I'm going after him,"
Throw off his coat, leap down the boat -- and then I gave a shout:
"Boys, grab him, quick! You're crazy, Dick! Far better one than two!
Hell, man! You know you've got no show! It's sure and certain death. . . ."
And there we hung, and there we clung, with beef and brawn and thew,
And sinews cracked and joints were racked, and panting came our breath;
And there we swayed and there we prayed, till strength and hope were spent --
Then Dick, he threw us off like rats, and after Jim he went.
With mighty urge amid the surge of river-rage he leapt,
And gripped his mate and desperate he fought to gain the shore;
With teeth a-gleam he bucked the stream, yet swift and sure he swept
To meet the mighty cataract that waited all a-roar.
And there we stood like carven wood, our faces sickly white,
And watched him as he beat the foam, and inch by inch he lost;
And nearer, nearer drew the fall, and fiercer grew the fight,
Till on the very cascade crest a last farewell he tossed.
Then down and down and down they plunged into that pit of dread;
And mad we tore along the shore to claim our bitter dead.
And from that hell of frenzied foam, that crashed and fumed and boiled,
Two little bodies bubbled up, and they were heedless then;
And oh, they lay like senseless clay! and bitter hard we toiled,
Yet never, never gleam of hope, and we were weary men.
And moments mounted into hours, and black was our despair;
And faint were we, and we were fain to give them up as dead,
When suddenly I thrilled with hope: "Back, boys! and give him air;
I feel the flutter of his heart. . . ." And, as the word I said,
Dick gave a sigh, and gazed around, and saw our breathless band;
And saw the sky's blue floor above, all strewn with golden fleece;
And saw his comrade Jack-pot Jim, and touched him with his hand:
And then there came into his eyes a look of perfect peace.
And as there, at his very feet, the thwarted river raved,
I heard him murmur low and deep:
"Thank God! the whiskey's saved."
poem by Robert William Service
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Intaglio - Frank Denz
In the roar of the storm, in the wild bitter voice of the tempest-whipped sea,
The cry of my darling, my child, comes ever and ever to me;
And I stand where the haggard-faced wood stares down on a sinister shore,
But all that is left is the hood of the babe I can cherish no more.
A little blue hood, with the shawl of the girl that I took for my wife
In a happy old season, is all that remains of the light of my life;
The wail of a woman in pain, and the sob of a smothering bird,
They come through the darkness again —
in the wind and the rain they are heard.
Oh, women and men who have known the perils of weather and wave,
It is sad that my sweet ones are blown under sea without shelter of grave;
I sob like a child in the night, when the gale on the waters is loud —
My darlings went down in my sight, with neither a coffin nor shroud.
In the whistle of wind, and the whirl of ominous fragments of wreck,
The wife, with her poor little girl, saw death on the lee of the deck;
But, sirs, she depended on me — she trusted my comforting word;
She is down in the depths of the sea — my love, with her beautiful bird.
In the boat I was ordered to go — I was not more afraid than the rest,
But a husband will falter, you know, with the love of his life at his breast;
My captain was angry a space, but soon he grew tender in tone —
Perhaps there had flashed by his face a wife and a child of his own.
I was weak for some moments, and cried; but only one hope was in life;
The hood upon baby I tied — I fastened the shawl on my wife.
The skipper took charge of the child — he stuck to his word till the last;
But only this hood on the wild, bitter shore of the sea had been cast.
In the place of a coward, who shook like a leaf in the quivering boat,
A seat by the rowlocks I took; but the sea had me soon by the throat,
The surge gripped me fast by the neck — in a ring, and a roll, and a roar,
I was cast like a piece of the wreck, on a bleak, beaten, shelterless shore.
And there were my darlings on board for the rest of that terrible day,
And I watched and I prayed to the Lord, as never before I could pray.
The windy hills stared at the black, heavy clouds coming over the wave;
My girl was expecting me back, but where was my power to save?
Ah! where was my power, when Death was glaring at me from the reef?
I cried till I gasped for my breath, aloof with a maddening grief.
We couldn’t get back to the deck: I wanted to go, but the sea
Dashed over the sides of the wreck, and carried my darling from me.
Oh, girl that I took by the hand to the altar two summers ago,
I would you were buried on land — my dear, it would comfort me so!
I would you were sleeping where grows the grass and the musical reed!
For how can you find a repose in the toss of the tangle and weed?
The night sped along, and I strained to the shadow and saw to the end
My captain and bird — he remained to the death a superlative friend:
In the face of the hurricane wild, he clung with the babe to the mast;
To the last he was true to my child — he was true to my child to the last.
The wind, like a life without home, comes mocking at door and at pane
In the time of the cry of the foam — in the season of thunder and rain,
And, dreaming, I start in the bed, and feel for my little one’s brow —
But lost is the beautiful head; the cradle is tenantless now!
My home was all morning and glow when wife and her baby were there,
But, ah! it is saddened, you know, by dresses my girl used to wear.
I cannot re-enter the door; its threshold can never be crossed,
For fear I should see on the floor the shoes of the child I have lost.
There were three of us once in the world; but two are deep down in the sea,
Where waif and where tangle are hurled — the two that were portions of me;
They are far from me now, but I hear, when hushed are the night and the tide,
The voice of my little one near — the step of my wife by my side.
poem by Henry Kendall
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The Sisters
ANNIE and Rhoda, sisters twain,
Woke in the night to the sound of rain,
The rush of wind, the ramp and roar
Of great waves climbing a rocky shore.
Annie rose up in her bed-gown white,
And looked out into the storm and night.
'Hush, and hearken!' she cried in fear,
'Hearest thou nothing, sister dear?'
'I hear the sea, and the plash of rain,
And roar of the northeast hurricane.
'Get thee back to the bed so warm,
No good comes of watching a storm.
'What is it to thee, I fain would know,
That waves are roaring and wild winds blow?
'No lover of thine's afloat to miss
The harbor-lights on a night like this.'
'But I heard a voice cry out my name,
Up from the sea on the wind it came.
'Twice and thrice have I heard it call,
And the voice is the voice of Estwick Hall!'
On her pillow the sister tossed her head.
'Hall of the Heron is safe,' she said.
'In the tautest schooner that ever swam
He rides at anchor in Anisquam.
'And, if in peril from swamping sea
Or lee shore rocks, would he call on thee?'
But the girl heard only the wind and tide,
And wringing her small white hands she cried,
'O sister Rhoda, there's something wrong;
I hear it again, so loud and long.
''Annie! Annie!' I hear it call,
And the voice is the voice of Estwick Hall!'
Up sprang the elder, with eyes aflame,
'Thou liest! He never would call thy name!
'If he did, I would pray the wind and sea
To keep him forever from thee and me!'
Then out of the sea blew a dreadful blast;
Like the cry of a dying man it passed.
The young girl hushed on her lips a groan,
But through her tears a strange light shone,--
The solemn joy of her heart's release
To own and cherish its love in peace.
'Dearest!' she whispered, under breath,
'Life was a lie, but true is death.
'The love I hid from myself away
Shall crown me now in the light of day.
'My ears shall never to wooer list,
Never by lover my lips be kissed.
'Sacred to thee am I henceforth,
Thou in heaven and I on earth!'
She came and stood by her sister's bed
'Hall of the Heron is dead!' she said.
'The wind and the waves their work have done,
We shall see him no more beneath the sun.
'Little will reek that heart of thine,
It loved him not with a love like mine.
'I, for his sake, were he but here,
Could hem and 'broider thy bridal gear,
'Though hands should tremble and eyes be wet,
And stitch for stitch in my heart be set.
'But now my soul with his soul I wed;
Thine the living, and mine the dead!'
poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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