Gloucester Moors

A mile behind is Gloucester town
    Where the fishing fleets put in,
    A mile ahead the land dips down
    And the woods and farms begin.
    Here, where the moors stretch free
    In the high blue afternoon,
    Are the marching sun and talking sea,
    And the racing winds that wheel and flee
    On the flying heels of June.

    Jill-o'er-the-ground is purple blue,
    Blue is the quaker-maid,
    The wild geranium holds its dew
    Long in the boulder's shade.
    Wax-red hangs the cup
    From the huckleberry boughs,
    In barberry bells the grey moths sup,
    Or where the choke-cherry lifts high up
    Sweet bowls for their carouse.

    Over the shelf of the sandy cove
    Beach-peas blossom late.
    By copse and cliff the swallows rove
    Each calling to his mate.
    Seaward the sea-gulls go,
    And the land-birds all are here;
    That green-gold flash was a vireo,
    And yonder flame where the marsh-flags grow
    Was a scarlet tanager.

    This earth is not the steadfast place
    We landsmen build upon;
    From deep to deep she varies pace,
    And while she comes is gone.
    Beneath my feet I feel
    Her smooth bulk heave and dip;
    With velvet plunge and soft upreel
    She swings and steadies to her keel
    Like a gallant, gallant ship.

    These summer clouds she sets for sail,
    The sun is her masthead light,
    She tows the moon like a pinnace frail
    Where her phosphor wake churns bright.
    Now hid, now looming clear,
    On the face of the dangerous blue
    The star fleets tack and wheel and veer,
    But on, but on does the old earth steer
    As if her port she knew.

    God, dear God! Does she know her port,
    Though she goes so far about?
    Or blind astray, does she make her sport
    To brazen and chance it out?
    I watched when her captains passed:
    She were better captainless.
    Men in the cabin, before the mast,
    But some were reckless and some aghast,
    And some sat gorged at mess.

    By her battened hatch I leaned and caught
    Sounds from the noisome hold,--
    Cursing and sighing of souls distraught
    And cries too sad to be told.
    Then I strove to go down and see;
    But they said, "Thou art not of us!"
    I turned to those on the deck with me
    And cried, "Give help!" But they said, "Let be:
    Our ship sails faster thus."

    Jill-o'er-the-ground is purple blue,
    Blue is the quaker-maid,
    The alder-clump where the brook comes through
    Breeds cresses in its shade.
    To be out of the moiling street
    With its swelter and its sin!
    Who has given to me this sweet,
    And given my brother dust to eat?
    And when will his wage come in?

    Scattering wide or blown in ranks,
    Yellow and white and brown,
    Boats and boats from the fishing banks
    Come home to Gloucester town.
    There is cash to purse and spend,
    There are wives to be embraced,
    Hearts to borrow and hearts to lend,
    And hearts to take and keep to the end,--
    O little sails, make haste!

    But thou, vast outbound ship of souls,
    What harbor town for thee?
    What shapes, when thy arriving tolls,
    Shall crowd the banks to see?
    Shall all the happy shipmates then
    Stand singing brotherly?
    Or shall a haggard ruthless few
    Warp her over and bring her to,
    While the many broken souls of men
    Fester down in the slaver's pen,
    And nothing to say or do?