The captain at the tip of his ship,
Who sang into the onrushing storm.
And while it raved and raised its whip,
He offered it his sweet and strange song.
The stars hid themselves away that night,
For they could not bear to hear the sound,
Some guilt laden set them-selves alight,
And fell downward mindless and unbound.
Like queens that cast themselves from high towers,
When despotic swords dyed their dreams red,
And they mutely became part of the stars,
Myriad martyrs die unheard and unsaid.
It was a song of his loves and dreams,
Of his parents and their lucid lives,
Of memories that burst out in streams,
And the look in distant dying eyes.
Of the simple things he liked to do,
Thoughts that filled his mind as a child,
Of the mute grey and solitary blue,
And the poetic spirit of the wild.
Of how the mud smelt in the warm rain,
Of the subtle fevers of childhood,
Of how oblique rays of light would stain,
Familiar parts of the walls and wood.
Of his shyness, guilt and fears,
And all that is the life of a man,
Like raging floods that leapt over weirs,
And thus his song of life limpidly ran.
They say the storm bellowed and cried out,
Like a father smothering his own child,
And the rain and rage seemed to mount,
And race like a wild stallion untied.
They say you can still hear that sad song,
And the storm and his savage din,
But only if you tarry unmeasured long,
And if you have a poet within.