Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, DESIRE MINTER, by MARION PERHAM GALE


Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

DESIRE MINTER, by                    
First Line: She sees the white mist rise to blot the land
Last Line: "england . . . England is calling to my soul!"
Subject(s): Mayflower (ship); Pilgrimages & Pilgrims; Plymouth, Massachusetts


She sees the white mist rise to blot the land . . .
The homeland of her childhood! . . . England's shore!
Now only trails the winding path of foam
To kiss the keel and write a brief farewell.
So like the moon that drifts across the day,
The light that dreams within her land-locked eyes;
So like cool lilies clouds have wept upon,
The silky pallor of her tear-washed cheeks.

She draws a small child closer from the wind
That whips her gray frock to a dancing sail
More fair to look upon than those that fill
With power of progress high above her head,
And flap an answer to the gulls' bleak cry
As ever circling they descend and rise
In broken rhythm. All the world for her
In this still moment is the visioning
Of distant hopes and dear remembrances.

The day grows dark, and darker grows the wave, --
The wind drives fury with a cruel hand
Against the shivering frame of this brave ship,
The Mayflower! . . . the hope of troubled souls
Who seek a quiet place to reach their God.
Desire reads her prayers, and talks and sings
To keep the child from fear, and ease the look
Of terror on the mother's face.
There is no fear in her . . . she walks as one
Compelled by powers not her own to move --
A flower budding in a desert place
With perfect patience.

At last the day!
A fir-masked shore beneath November skies;
Her voice ascending in the common prayer;
New soil at last beneath her eager feet;
The song unburdened in a flood of tears!

The days of cruel hardship come too near.
She lays a flower in the child's cold hands
And dares not look upon the mother's face.
All is so still, so still, beneath this sky,
And God's way further from the mind's belief.
Oh, bitter, bitter days of praise and grief!

She sees the dry sod turned to take the dead
Three times within the sun's swift flight.
Too great the price this stern New World demands.
She kneels upon the sandy beach and knows
More than a sadness . . . in each frowning cloud
She sights an enemy, and in the sea
A stubborn ally daring her to leave
This place and find her youth once more!

She sees the white mist rise to blot the land . . .
Now only trails the winding path of foam
To kiss the keel and write a brief farewell.
"Farewell, ye Pilgrims, let the axe take toll . . .
England . . . England is calling to my soul!"





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