THE HARP
Across the wind-swept spaces of the sky
The harp of all the world is hung on high,
And through its shining strings the swallows fly.
The little silver fingers of the rain
Oft touch it softly to a low refrain,
That all day long comes o'er and o'er again.
And when the storms of God above it roll,
The mighty wind awakes its sleeping soul
To songs of wild delight or bitter dole.
And through the quiet night, as faint and far
As melody down-drifted from a star,
Trembles strange music where those harp-strings are.
But only flying words of joy and woe,
Caught from the restless earth-bound souls below,
Over the vibrant wires ebb and flow.
And in the cities that men call their own,
And in the unnamed places, waste and lone,
This harp forever sounds Life's undertone.
GULLS
When the mist drives past and the wind blows high,
And the harbour lights are dim--
See where they circle, and dip and fly,
The grey free-lances of wind and sky,
To the water's distant rim!
Like spirits possessed of a fierce delight,
A courage that cannot fail,
They face the breakers--they face the night--
The mad storm-horses are silvery white,
They ride through the bitter gale!
They seem like the souls of the long, long lost,
Who breasted the ocean-main--
Vikings whose vessels were tempest-tossed,
Voyagers who sailed, whatever the cost,
And never came home again.
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