Poetry Archives

(For My Mother)


The fragile splendour of the level sea,
 The moon’s serene and silver-veiled face,
 Make of this vessel an enchanted place
Full of white mirth and golden sorcery.
Now, for a time, shall careless laughter be
 Blended with song, to lend song sweeter grace,
 And the old stars, in their unending race,
Shall heed and envy young humanity.

And yet to-night, a hundred leagues away,
 These waters blush a strange and awful red.
Before the moon, a cloud obscenely grey
 Rises from decks that crash with flying lead.
And these stars smile their immemorial way
 On waves that shroud a thousand newly dead!