The Old Ships

I HAVE seen old ships sail like swans asleep

Beyond the village which men still call Tyre,

With leaden age o’ercargoed, dipping deep

For Famagusta and the hidden sun

That rings black Cyprus with a lake of fire;

And all those ships were certainly so old—

Who knows how oft with squat and noisy gun,

Questing brown slaves or Syrian oranges,

The pirate Genoese

Hell-raked them till they rolled

Blood, water, fruit and corpses up the hold.

But now through friendly seas they softly run,

Painted the mid-sea blue or shore-sea green,

Still patterned with the vine and grapes in gold.

But I have seen,

Pointing her shapely shadows from the dawn

And image tumbled on a rose-swept bay,

A drowsy ship of some yet older day;

And, wonder’s breath indrawn,

Thought I—who knows—who knows—but in that same

(Fished up beyond Aeaea, patched up new

—Stern painted brighter blue—)

That talkative, bald-headed seaman came

(Twelve patient comrades sweating at the oar)

From Troy’s doom-crimson shore,

And with great lies about his wooden horse

Set the crew laughing, and forgot his course.

It was so old a ship—who knows, who knows?

—And yet so beautiful, I watched in vain

To see the mast burst open with a rose,

And the whole deck put on its leaves again.