From the ocean half a rood
To the sandhills long and low
Ever and anon I go;
Hide from me the gleaming flood,
Only listen to its flow.
To those billowy curls of sand
Little of delight is lent-
As it were a yellow tent,
Here and there by some wild hand
Pitch’d, and overgrown with bent.
Some few buds like golden beads
Cut in stars on leaves that shine
Greenly, and a fragrance fine
Of the ocean’s delicate weeds,
Of his fresh and foamy wine.
But the place is music-haunted.
Let there blow what wind soever;-
Now as by a stately river,
A monotonous requiem’s chanted;
Now you hear great pine-woods shiver.
Frequent when the tides are low
Creep for hours sweet sleepy hums.
But when in the spring tide comes,
Then the silver trumpets blow
And the waters beat like drums.
And the Atlantic’s roll full often,
Muffled by the sandhills round,
Seems a mighty city’s sound,
Which the night-wind serves to soften
By the waker’s pillow drown’d:
Seems a salvo-state or battle’s-
Through the purple mountain gaps
Heard by peasants; or perhaps
Seems a wheel that rolls or rattles;
Seems an eagle’s wing that flaps;
Seems a peal of thunder, caught
By the mountain pines and tuned
To a marvellous gentle sound;
Wailings where despair is not,-
Hearts self-hushing some heart wound.
Still what winds there blow soever,
Wet or shine, by sun or star,
When white horses plunge afar,
When the palsied froth-lines shiver,
When the waters quiet are;
On the sandhills where waves boom
Or with ripples scarce at all
Tumble not so much as crawl,
Ever do we know of whom
Cometh up the rise and fall.
Need is none to see the ships,
None to mark the mid-sea jet
Softening into violet,
While those old pre-Adamite lips
To those boundary heaps are set.
Ah! I see not the great foam
That beyond me strangely rolls,
Whose white-wing?d ships are souls
Sailing from the port called Home,
When the signal bell, Death, tolls.
And I catch not the broad shimmer,
Catch not yet the hue divine
Of the purpling hyaline;
Of the heaving and the glimmer
Just hid from these eyes of mine.
But by wondrous sounds not shut
By the sandhills, I may be
Sure that a diviner sea
Than earth’s keels have ever cut
Rolls towards eternity.
(Archbishop William Alexander)
More Poetry from Archbishop William Alexander:
Archbishop William Alexander Poems based on Topics: Death & Dying, Silver, Place, Eternity, Wine, Spring, Home, Weeds- The Waters of Babylon (Archbishop William Alexander Poems)
- The Finding Of The Book (Archbishop William Alexander Poems)
- The Old Man And The Ship (Archbishop William Alexander Poems)
- The Rose Of The Infata (Archbishop William Alexander Poems)
- Music Or Words? (Archbishop William Alexander Poems)
- Death Of Archbishop Malachy (Archbishop William Alexander Poems)
Readers Who Like This Poem Also Like:
Based on Topics: Death & Dying Poems, Place Poems, Home Poems, Spring Poems, Eternity Poems, Wine Poems, Silver Poems, Weeds PoemsBased on Keywords: greenly, hyaline, wailings, sandhills, mid-sea, pine-woods, white-wing, music-haunted, pre-adamite, waker