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Henrietta Clarke, sea, in English Clear filters

DreamyHenrietta Clarke

East Coast Port

The sailor stood above the quay And watched the stirring sights below. Overhead, the sky was blue, But the sea was pure ultramarine, Gashed with white choppy waves. From the ships there came the call Of orders, the clanging of bells, The squeak of hawser on mooring post, And over all the screaming of sea-gulls. The air, salt and tangy, Was seasoned with oakum and tar, An East Coast Port. The sailor closed his eyes and was again In fantasy, back in his Western home; There the sky was luminous with heat, And waving grain, golden and ripe,
ContemplativeHenrietta Clarke

Derelict

Is it possible that I Here in shallow waters lie, Keeled to starboard on the sand Far too near to be to land? Three strong masts are misty white, Bleached by days of burning light; Time indeed has done enough, But I'm made of stronger stuff Than the other wrecks around, Skeletons upon the sound. Nothing but their shriveled bones Through which tide-rip creeps and No, my hulk's as strong to-day, Strong as when the ladies gay Walked my decks with sailors bold Telling tales of days of old,
DreamyHenrietta Clarke

Sea-Born

The meadow stretches far away, Tall silver tree trunks far and near Bend neither to the east or west, No ocean breeze blows here. Horizon lines are grey and cool, And snow-bleached grasses dry and sere Rise up above the sorrel loam, No ocean breeze blows here. To one born by a wind-swept coast This peaceful scene is flat and drear, He longs for swaying storm-tossed trees, High-crested waves, and foam-swept weir. Horizons blue where ships appear And beacon to an unknown sphere.
SadHenrietta Clarke

Wild Roses

Beside the country lane wild roses grow; Each year it looks the same, how well I know, For I walk down this road when work is done, And often in the golden setting sun I see you stand beside the hedge again, And all the joy returns, and all the pain. The salt sea breeze mingles with hay and clover, Gulls whirl and cry; the summer’s almost over. Wild rose, with thorns your beauty can’t conceal, Waken afresh the anguish that I feel. The tide goes out, the barren rocks look grey, Sea-gulls fly by and only memories stay.
DreamyHenrietta Clarke

Moored

She tugs her cables taut and strong As the wind blows out to sea, On high the sea-gulls screaming whirl And strengthen her wish to be free. She feels with pain the urge to sail Far off from the town of her birth, As day by day she creaks and strains And longs for the ends of earth. Quite near the quay an office stands Where a man with sea-blue eyes Is watching the gulls in their noisy flight, A flurry of wings on the skies. He is sick of the sight of chair and desk, He is longing for other lands, For moon-drenched maidens pale and slim And islands with coral sands.
ContemplativeHenrietta Clarke

Men Fishing

I have seen men fishing. In the cool shade of the blue-shadowed hills The water flowed over white pebbles, And the amber pools were hiding places for opal beauties. The swish of a line, the gay trill of a bird on a sun-patterned tree, Or the splash of a wary fish upstream were the only sounds. I have seen men fishing for pleasure. I have seen men fishing. Off the Grand Banks, in the fog and cold Men in dories, men hardy and strong, hauled in white-bellied cod. The yellow boats rocked and rolled in the ocean swell, But work went steadfastly on. As the fog lifted other craft came in sight, Heavy-laden with their silver prey managed deftly with rough hands. While the rank air of the sea enveloped all.
SadHenrietta Clarke

Three Rocking Chairs

From a low branch of a willow tree A newly painted sign was hung. The old farmhouse back of the willows Looked on with troubled eyes at this outrage, With its gaudy printing, “Furniture and Antiques for Sale.” Out of doors on the stoop, Three empty rocking chairs Swayed lightly in the gentle breeze. How easily one could picture three women Rocking and chatting together. Now and then the chairs ceased rocking As though some bit of gossip Had been discussed. From an upstairs window in the ell Two unstarched curtains hung limp and pathetic.
RomanticHenrietta Clarke

Welcome

To-day is the day the ships come in, From the fishing banks of the sea, Shall I meet my love in the blustering wind ’Mid the sounds and scents of the quay? Or would he rather I stayed at home In a manner circumspect, And keep ablaze the hearthstone fire, Just what will he expect? I think I’ll stay, I think I’ll go, There seem to be two of me, And the neighbors will talk and gossip so Whichever way it be. But look, a sail, they round the buoy, A high wind’s blowing free, I snatch my shawl, I’m out of doors, There’s only one of me.
DreamyHenrietta Clarke

Unrest

The sheltered farm had always been her home Yet in her dwelt no liking for the loam. A visionary child, it always seemed, Her real world, the fantasy she dreamed. When, climbing long green hills she found the sea, Came seething urge and longing to be free; The courtships of village lovers left her cold. Could life go on like this till she was old, And would she always long and hope in vain? Within her blood there ran an alien strain.
SadHenrietta Clarke

A Square Peg

And she said once more, “You cannot go.” Then he turned his face away From beyond the rocks and the blue-green sea, Where a full-rigged vessel lay. At the farm the house was neat and trim With an orchard blooming near; But to-day the whole place seemed to him As if filled with drastic fear, With a fear no more to take his place At the wheel of outbound ships, Or to know the breeze with stinging tang As toward the lea she dips. When he dug the earth the clods were waves, In the sky, he saw a sail, And he thought the hoe that burned his hands Was a tiller through a gale.

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