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(From Joaquin)
I STAND beside the mobile sea; | |
| And sails are spread, and sails are furled | |
| From farthest corners of the world, | |
| And fold like white wings wearily. | |
| Steamships go up, and some go down | 5 |
| In haste, like traders in a town, | |
| And seem to see and beckon all. | |
| Afar at sea some white shapes flee, | |
| With arms stretched like a ghost’s to me, | |
| And cloud-like sails far blown and curled, | 10 |
| Then glide down to the under-world. | |
| As if blown bare in winter blasts | |
| Of leaf and limb, tall naked masts | |
| Are rising from the restless sea, | |
| So still and desolate and tall, | 15 |
| I seem to see them gleam and shine | |
| With clinging drops of dripping brine. | |
| Broad still brown wings flit here and there, | |
| Thin sea-blue wings wheel everywhere, | |
| And white wings whistle through the air: | 20 |
| I hear a thousand sea-gulls call. | |
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| Behold the ocean on the beach | |
| Kneel lowly down as if in prayer. | |
| I hear a moan as of despair, | |
| While far at sea do toss and reach | 25 |
| Some things so like white pleading hands. | |
| The ocean’s thin and hoary hair | |
| Is trailed along the silvered sands, | |
| At every sigh and sounding moan. | |
| ’T is not a place for mirthfulness, | 30 |
| But meditation deep, and prayer, | |
| And kneelings on the salted sod, | |
| Where man must own his littleness | |
| And know the mightiness of God. | |
| The very birds shriek in distress | 35 |
| And sound the ocean’s monotone. | |
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| Dared I but say a prophecy, | |
| As sang the holy men of old, | |
| Of rock-built cities yet to be | |
| Along these shining shores of gold, | 40 |
| Crowding athirst into the sea, | |
| What wondrous marvels might be told! | |
| Enough, to know that empire here | |
| Shall burn her loftiest, brightest star; | |
| Here art and eloquence shall reign, | 45 |
| As o’er the wolf-reared realm of old; | |
| Here learned and famous from afar, | |
| To pay their noble court, shall come, | |
| And shall not seek or see in vain, | |
| But look on all with wonder dumb. | 50 |
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| Afar the bright Sierras lie | |
| A swaying line of snowy white, | |
| A fringe of heaven hung in sight | |
| Against the blue base of the sky. | |
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| I look along each gaping gorge, | 55 |
| I hear a thousand sounding strokes | |
| Like giants rending giant oaks, | |
| Or brawny Vulcan at his forge; | |
| I see pickaxes flash and shine | |
| And great wheels whirling in a mine. | 60 |
| Here winds a thick and yellow thread, | |
| A mossed and silver stream instead; | |
| And trout that leaped its rippled tide | |
| Have turned upon their sides and died. | |
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| Lo! when the last pick in the mine | 65 |
| Is rusting red with idleness. | |
| And rot yon cabins in the mould, | |
| And wheels no more croak in distress, | |
| And tall pines reassert command, | |
| Sweet bards along this sunset shore | 70 |
| Their mellow melodies will pour; | |
| Will charm as charmers very wise, | |
| Will strike the harp with master hand, | |
| Will sound unto the vaulted skies | |
| The valor of these men of old,— | 75 |
| The mighty men of ’Forty-nine; | |
| Will sweetly sing and proudly say, | |
| Long, long agone there was a day | |
| When there were giants in the land. | |
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