Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE COMRADE, by ARTHUR THOMAS QUILLER-COUCH



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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE COMRADE, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: Stranger by the tavern board
Last Line: Winnowed by the wave and sky.
Alternate Author Name(s): Q; Quiller-couch, A. T.
Subject(s): Death - Mothers; Ships & Shipping; Widows & Widowers; Dead, The


STRANGER by the tavern board,
Brown man with the splendid eyne,
Thou and I make no accord
Till thou give the countersign
Here, across the Rhenish wine!

I had word in Trebizond
Of thy favours to my blood,
Of my father's cancelled bond,
Why his widow lacked not food:
Truly I believe thee good.

Well I know my mother's lips
Called thee kinder than her Own
In those months my wandered ships,
Fouler than this red beard grown,
Wallowed in a raving zone.

'Needs no token round thy neck!—
Over deserts dusky white,
Where the frosted quarter-deck
Shivered back the Northern Light
Through the aching Arctic night;

By the coral-locked lagoon,
While upon the seamless blue
Like a silver clasp, the moon
Drew the gauzèd night, wherethrough
Her two horns dripped honey-dew;

Thine the face that, first and last,
Haunted me. For thee I scanned
Passing deck and lifting mast,
Peep of dawn and fall of land.
Now we meet—hold back thy hand!

Tho' thou smilest by the board,
Tho' our fingers itch to twine,
Thou and I make no accord
Till I have the countersign
Here, across the Rhenish wine.

He that loves but half of Earth
Loves but half enough for me.
Succourer of starving Worth,
Say, but could thy Charity
Stoop as pitiful a knee,

Hold as equable a torch
O'er the hell that sinners tread?
Tenderly, in windy porch,
Lift the drooping harlot's head,
As the good man's in his bed?

Earth, that built our jolly bones,—
Earth, that brewed our jovial blood,—
In each atom of us owns
Spark of filial fire that should
Quicken to her parent mood.

Here, astride the breasts of Earth,
With the wind upon thy face,
Canst resound thy mother's mirth,
Catch a breath and say a grace
For the glory of the pace?—

Thankful for thy privilege
In the hunter's gallant stride,
In the glancing rapid's edge,
In the waters that divide
To thy nimble, naked pride;

Thankful for the climber's heel
Fast above the smooth ravine,
For the hand-shake of the wheel,
When the giddy royals lean
And the forefoot treads it green;

For the sleep of tirèd limbs,
For the feast of meat and wine,
For the merry laugh that brims
Labour with a froth divine?—
Pledge me this, and I am thine.

Then to horse!—the gates are wide.
Host, a cup before we go!
He and I are pledged to ride
Till the gust of onset blow
Dead the failing spark; and so—

Having reached, or failed to reach,
In no Abbey will we lie,
But upon a league-long beach
Find the braver cemet'ry,
Winnowed by the wave and sky.





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