Classic and Contemporary Poetry
SAINT BRANDAN OF THE WEST, by ROBERT PETER TRISTRAM COFFIN Poet Analysis First Line: Sweet is the furrow that leads to the star that closes day Last Line: And lay my burning face in the white, sweet curve of his hand. Subject(s): Brendan, Saint (484-578); Brendan Of Clonfert; Brandan, Saint; Brandon, Saint; Brennainn, Saint; Brendan The Voyager | ||||||||
Sweet is the furrow that leads to the star that closes day, Sweet are lamps, sweet are words the homing plowmen say; Cities are fair where sons of men Hear churchbells and turn again; Wine is good and windows men have wrought with their hands, The feet of holy men make lovely the green, good lands. But the high, high hills of the sea That climb to the knees of God Are the places singing to me, places for praise most fair; To sail to the edge of the world is worship for me and prayer. I ask not house nor hearth, only the sail grown full With the beauty of white, white winds and the rudder ropes to pull. Islands will blossom out as white As ever they were Creation night, The stars will hang my spars with lanterns, and the moon Come over the water like many and many golden shoon; The dawn shall be my wife, The noon shall be my friend, And evening neighbor me. I need not harp or words, Only the setting sun and the beauty and wings of the birds. To be alone with the lonely birds that take their food From God's own hand, to plunge as the dolphins that are thewed With flame and the drops at the fountain's crest And all swift things that will not rest, To be a fever of joy that burns around the earth Like the stars that follow day in everlasting mirth, To lie below the sail, My crystal vase of winds -- This were wife and child, brother and church to me, An everlasting kiss, the lone fierce kiss of the sea. Others may have my flocks, others may trim and train The roses God makes of sun, of blood and marrow and rain My flowers are sudden as summer thunder, They blossom blue where the waves curl under. I go with all things wisful of the West, I go Where the sons of morning stand whiter than driven snow, In between the wings Of the great and last white clouds. . . . Shoulder there to shoulder with them I shall stand And lay my burning face in the white, sweet curve of His hand. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SAN BORONDON by CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH CHRIST IN BRITAIN: 17. SAINT BRENDAN by THOMAS SAMUEL JONES JR. THE LITTLE BRETHREN by KATHARINE TYNAN IFFLEY by ROBERT PETER TRISTRAM COFFIN I PAY MY DEBT FOR LAFAYETTE AND ROCHAMBEAU' by EDGAR LEE MASTERS BARNEY'S INVITATION by PHILIP FRENEAU ECHOES: 4. INVICTUS by WILLIAM ERNEST HENLEY WATER WOMAN by JOSEPH AUSLANDER THE ELDER WOMAN'S SONG: 1, FR. KING LEAR'S WIFE by GORDON BOTTOMLEY |
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