But there still is sea somewhere, mist and sea-fog in the air, There are little frail and fairy craft afloat. Give me an oar again, set me out from shore again, Dark or day, calm or spray, any, anywhere you say; Let me feel again the might of the water, let me fight Will to will, strength to strength, hate to hatred, till at length Wind and water welcome me, and know me strong as they! There is dust and level heat on the black and moving street, And the long night will just repeat the day; But I'm dreaming of the sea, sail and sea-gull white and free; And I want to drift and listen where they play. Give me a boat again, set me out afloat again, Sail a-shine, white and fine, clouds like whiter sails in line, Wave and furrow, spray and foam, this is home and home and home! This is gladness, this is power, this my one triumphant hour! Leagues of sky, and leagues of sea, and all of it is mine! Mary Carolyn Davies PENANG 93 D'AVALO'S PRAYER When the last sea is sailed and the last shallow charted, When the last field is reaped and the last harvest stored, When the last fire is out and the last guest departed, Grant the last prayer that I shall pray: "Be good to me, O Lord! "And let me pass in a night at sea, a night of storm and thunder, In the loud crying of the wind through sail and rope and spar; Send me a ninth, great, peaceful wave to drown and roll me under To the cold tunny-fishes' home where the drowned galleons are. "And in the dim, green, quiet place far out of sight and hearing, Grant I may hear at whiles the wash and thresh of the sea-foam About the fine, keen bows of the stately clippers steering Towards the lone northern star and the fair ports of home." John Masefield PENANG I want to go back to Singapore And ship along the Straits, To a bungalow I know beside Penang; Of Peace shut Sorrow out forevermore. Like the washing of Eternity over the dead. I want to go back to Penang! I want to go back! I want to go back to Singapore And up along the Straits, To the bungalow that waits me by the tide. Have set no soothless canker at life's core. While the tamarind-tree is whispering thoughts of sleep I want to believe that Earth again With Heaven is in tune. I want to go back to Penang! I want to go back! I want to go back to Singapore And ship along the Straits, To the bungalow I left upon the strand. Where the foam of the world grows faint before It enters, and abates In meaning as I hear the palm-wind pour. I want to go back and end my days Some evening when the Cross THE TRACKS OF THE TRADES In the southern sky hangs heavily far and sad. That life elsewhere was loss. 95 I want to go back to Penang! I want to go back! Cale Young Rice THE TRACKS OF THE TRADES Take me back, take me back to the Tracks of the Trade! Let me wander again in the coco palms' shade, Where the drums of the ocean, in pulsating roar, Beat time for the waltz of the waves on the shore; Where sunlight and starlight and moonlight conspire To speed the gay hours on the wings of desire; Let me clamber again through the orchid-bright glade Take me back, take me back to the Tracks of the Trade! Oh, the hot flame of sunset, the tremulous light When the afterglow fades to the velvet of night! The star-stencilled headland in blank silhouette Where the moonbeams are meshed in the flamboyant's net! Oh, the purple of midnight, the grey mists of dawn, And the amber flood after the darkness has gone! The slow-heaving ocean of gold-spangled jade, When the sun wakes the day in the Tracks of the Trade! Let my heart thrill again as the tom-tom's dull boom Floats out from the bush in the flower-fragrant gloom, And the shriek of the conches, the hi-mi-ne's swell, Brings word of the feast in the depths of the dell. Lead my footsteps again to that forest-crypt dim, Where the firelight throws shadows on bosom and limb, Of the billowing forms of the trim tropic-maids, When the song wakes the dance in the Tracks of the Trades! Let my hands close again on the hard-kicking wheel, As the schooner romps off on a rollicking reel, To the humming of back-stay and sharp-slatting sail, And the hiss of the comber that smothers the rail. Oh, the cadenced lament of the chorusing shroud, As the spindrift sweeps aft in a feathery cloud! Oh, the storm-tumbled sea-ways traversed unafraid, As the squalls spin the spume down the Tracks of the Trade! Take me back, take me back to the Tracks of the Trade! For 'tis weary I am of the city's parade, Of the dust of the traffic, the grey, cheerless skies, And the long lines of people with spiritless eyes. |