Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, DARIEN, by ELIZABETH SEWELL HILL


Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

DARIEN, by                    
First Line: The waves swing hushed to the blue sky-line
Last Line: The double world grows one—at darien!
Subject(s): Sailing & Sailors; Sea; Sea Voyages; Storms; Waves; Seamen; Sails; Ocean


1513

The waves swing hushed to the blue sky-line,
A deeper blue. The headwind lags
To the foam a-lee, and the worn sheet runs
To the ventured top at the leap of the sun
Over the rim of the good round world
And its burst of shore; while bluff and fine
The hills fall back and the spent sea fags

At the rushy deeps, its slow wash curled
Up the soft salt ooze; with stray kelp-rags
A-lift on the green tide, rotting, a-scum,
Splotched with wandering sea-moss and stag,
Bleached and barnacled, shaggy, a-crumb,
A-stench up the wind where, mossy and burled,
The swamp's forest glooms, its deck heart a-thrum
With wild wings shot with flame.
Nosing back in, we come
Up the hushed channel-groove where the sky-line sags
In the blistering sun, and the dead sails lay
Their wrinkled length down the yard's pleached grey
Where the river widens to meet the bay.

Oh, the good brown shore, where the world stands still,
Stands, nor blenches for wind or sea;
Sovereign, girt, immovable,
Upreared, gripped, impregnable;
Where granite and rubble and good brown loam
Hurl back the embattled foam.

The good brown shore! And the world grows still;
Still, with murmurous wings and song
And odors drifting out, pungent and fine,
Out to the dip of the blue sky-line
From the deepening hill-slope's blessed stain
A length away by the anchor-chain
A-creak in the sun at the tide's in-fill.

The good brown shore—and for the three moons long
But the welter of winds and flux of sea
Over the rim of the new round world;
With creak of cordage and mast a-strain,
The tug of the storm, and the anchor-chain
Down the scarr'd side running out, steady and slow,
To the anchor answering far below.

And ever and alway by compass and star,
Under scud of cloud or a fleckless sky,
Bleach of moon and scorch of sun;
And the dead round wears to a new day won
Out to the rim of the new round world.
And "On!" from the bridge; and ever there be
But welter of winds and flux of sea.

Oh, the call of the shore and the brave sail furled—
The brave worn sail and mast and yard
And the gallant crew—
Oh, the ranging world
And the glad sky's blue,
With the wild crowds swirled
At the jetty's brink, with banners a-swing
In the outfilling breeze, with tossing plumes curled
Round the roadstead's white rim—O gay Spanish World!—
And the gold-throated trumpets the battle-lines fling
Up the massing, thronged quay for the King—for the King!

It is knee to the deck while the colors dip low;
There's the sword's blessed hilt—and the bellying sail
With all hands aloft to the yard's rich despoil,
Running out fold on fold to the rope's sure un-coil;
Drawing back, swinging out with the heartening gale
From the long cheer's far intone, the drawn undertow.

It is bowsprit and yard-arm; it is ratline and top;
It is mizzen and mainsail, top gallant and jib;
And our brave galleon bourgeons full-winged, prow a-lift
To the sweep of the surge, with the passing foam's drift
Fading shoreward; with deep-running shadows that lie
Close a-lee; while from taut-thridded mast-head thrown high,
Fly the pennons of Spain.
Straining on out, we top
The world's surer seas and, hull down, we drop
To new worlds far out-stationed, over far seas out-run,
Under far skies new-fashioned, in the lee of all time.

It is brave prow and swelling; it is crossbeam and rib;
It is sheet to the yard-arm, the rope's quick in-reel,
The call from the mast-head, the hand at the wheel,
The pull of the anchor—and beyond us the stars,
With the sure deck a-lift.

The swept sea's salt rime,
The sail's shadowed blue, the cloud's trailing dun,
For the eye color-worn; with the boats weathered scars,
And the shroud's patterned rest down the ratlines runged bars;
And the give of timbers, the wash of waves,
Or the long dead lift of the slow swell laves
The rudder, blind to the helmsman's cry.
And the stars beckon out to far seas that ring
New worlds and a world's work—great gifts for the King.

Three moons—and "Land!" and "Land!" and "Land!"
Oh, the good brown, warm brown, soft brown loam
And the welcoming kiss—or ever vows were,
The mother-heart, somnolent, never a stir
In the scorch of the noon.
The stirred dust floats high
From fretted feet crowding the long slope to stand
Breathing short, looking out from the swelling hill-comb;
Up from wicked wings whistling, fanged wet lands that try
At the sweating lines; up thro' marsh grasses a-foam
At mailed loins; out from fresh haunted shadows that call,
Perfumed, wistful, couchant; up thro' jungles a-clomb
Forward—bushed, barbed, embrangled.
And "On!" to the wall
Of the rubble-strewn steep, where the cropped boulders die
In red granite, a-ridge, a-spur, seamed and scarred,
A-scale, toiling upward.

And "On!" So the quest
Upreared, flings defiance; and the red Divide rests,
Stops on guard, looking out, halting Time's spurred on-wrest;
Yields, reluctant, encompassed.

And, crest breaking crest—
Her centuried secret outblazoned, confessed—
The old world swings, double!

And down the wide West
Sinks untrod and unworn,
Spreads uncloven, untorn,
To the waiting white sands rimmed below, and a-lee,
Hangs new-born, uncradled, the limitless sea;
Waits the uncharted, the unsailed, the unwakened sea;
Sweeps again the enchanted, the fair sunset sea.

It is brave view and swelling, and the colors up-flung;
It is proud stroke and compelling, and the brave swords up-swung;
And known world or guessed,
Or worn world or west
To the uttermost shore, elfin islands a-nest,
While the sister shores ever the sister seas ring;
So fair worlds and fruited—our gift to the King!

1913-1914

There's the creak of cordage and mast a-strain,
With urgency swinging the breaking load
A-clomb, forward; so the great strides go,
With the sweating lines toiling far below
To the Plan's hard pace at the Cut's in-fill.

So the work. While, the circuited seas to gain,
The world sits foreshortened, the focal road
Down the waiting world-rim, fore-shadowed, fore-run.
So the work wears idle and the day grows still;
Still, with wash of waters that run
Under world-banners massing in line
Out to the dip of the blue sky-line.

It is gun speak gun—and sea meets sea;
The trumpet's throat—and sea greets sea;
(Or dreamed this dream, Balboa's men?)
And the ranging hills swing ajar, and then,
The double world grows one—at Darien!





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