Ambergris

20 AMBERGRIS Nay, stretch a hand ! Although their eagle clutch O’erturn thy skiff, yet it is overmuch To grieve for that : life is not so divine— I count it little grief to part with such ! We are wild serpents in a ring of fire ; Our necks stretch out, our haggard eyes aspire In desperation ; from the fearful line Our coils revulse in impotence and ire. An idle song it was the poet sang, A quavering note—no brazen kettle’s clang, But gentle, drooping, tearful. Nay, achieve ! I can remember how the finish rang Clear, sharp, and loud ; the harp is glad to die And give the clarion one note silver-high. It was too sweet for music, and I weave In vain the tattered woof of memory. Ashes and dust ! Cold cinders dead ! Our swords are rust ; Our lives are fled Like dew on glass. In vain we lust ; Our hopes are sped, Alas ! alas ! From heaven we are thrust, we have no more trust. Alas ! Gold hairs and gray ! Red lips and white ! Warm hearts, cold clay ! Bright day, dim night ! Our spirits pass Like the hours away. We have no light, Alas ! alas !