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Dreamy, Henrietta Clarke, 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,
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.
DreamyHenrietta Clarke

Her First Visit

I should remember better . . . Streets and high buildings Filled with a million sounds And the stress of life. But most clearly I recall My grandmother, Knitting rapidly bright-colored yarn Or hulling large strawberries With my aid. And I can remember walking, Clinging tightly to giant fingers; Our steps made a sharp noise On the pavement, as we hurried along For ice cream.
DreamyHenrietta Clarke

The Past

The sun threw burning streaks of light On the stately copper samovar. Days of Russian glory Dreamed in a second-hand store.
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.
DreamyHenrietta Clarke

Blacksmith Shop

The younger generation do not know The charm and pleasure of a blacksmith shop: With low-hung roof, grey and devoid of paint, And small-paned windows streaked with smoke and dust. Outside, the ground was worn as hard as flint From restless pawing of a hundred hoofs; Within, a certain acrid smell arose, A mixture of cold cinders and new steam, As much a part of the whole place as was The wide-built chimney or the smith himself. In semidarkness we could see the flame Of burning coals poked and raked back and forth And blown red by the teen-age boy, who leaned His elbows on the blackened well-worn stick, And pumped the bellows slowly up and down; A superman he really seemed to us,
DreamyHenrietta Clarke

Hot Stove Controversy

I raised the latch, entered the loose-hung door And found myself within the country store. A silence fell, but words still hung in air; I knew there would be talk, were I not there; Around the stove a group of seated men, With pipes well lit, waited to talk again. Leaning against the counter others stood Like awkward figures carved from native wood. The old stove cast across the store a gleam, Its glowing sides seemed bulged to burst a seam. I found a keg and sat down near the door, It almost seemed I had been there before; One farmer eyed me up and down, then spoke, He seemed content and so the silence broke. Another, sensing he was not alone, Began to speak in slow-spaced monotone;
DreamyHenrietta Clarke

The Timepiece

There was a time when watches were a joy To little boys who climbed their uncle’s knee, And listened to a solemn tock-tick-tock, And held in childish hands a mystery. You pulled a watch from out its pocket nest, Which always seemed too small to hold its prize, A magic spring was touched, the case popped wide, And you beheld the dial with wondering eyes. The watch was fastened to a heavy chain, With golden links, it hung across his vest, And once you found the way the crossbar worked, Your uncle then had neither peace nor rest. And there were charms, a horseshoe, a stag's tooth, High on a blue serge knee, you saw them all, Or on a rough tweed knee that scratched your skin
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.
DreamyHenrietta Clarke

Summer Clouds

The boy gazed at the changing summer clouds, Their form and fantasy like something dreamed; One moment in a snow-capped mount they'd rise With silver trees and icy steeps; he seemed To feel the Arctic winds from that vast space And wondered at the sun upon his face. But, gazing still, he found the scene had changed; An Oriental land, a narrow street With domes and spires, a sky line yet unknown, Was pictured there as by some magic feat; The sound of the silver bells floated on high And strangely mingled with the robin's cry. Then suddenly the sky was clearer blue And on its azure sea a barquentine, With white sails curving to the breeze, swept down, To carry him afar to lands unseen;

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