THE SWIMMERS
by: George Sterling (1869-1926)
- E were eight
fishers of the western sea,
- Who sailed our craft beside a barren land,
- Where harsh with pines the herdless mountains stand
- And lonely beaches be.
-
- There no man dwells, and ships go seldom past;
- Yet sometimes there we lift our keels ashore,
- To rest in safety 'mid the broken roar
- And mist of surges vast.
-
- One strand we know, remote from all the rest,
- Far north and south the cliffs are high and steep,
- Whose naked leagues of rock repel the deep,
- Insurgent from the west.
-
- Tawny it lies, untrodden e'er by man,
- Save when from storm we sought its narrow rift
- To beach our craft and light a fire of drift
- And sleep till day began.
-
- Along its sands no flower nor bird has home.
- Abrupt its breast, girt by no splendor save
- The whorled and curving emerald of the wave
- And scarves of rustling foam.
-
- A place of solemn beauty; yet we swore,
- By all the ocean stars' unhasting flight,
- To seek no refuge for another night
- Upon that haunted shore.
-
- That year a sombre autumn held the earth.
- At dawn we sailed from out our village bay;
- We sang; a taut wind leapt along the day;
- The sea-birds mocked our mirth.
-
- Southwest we drave, like arrows to a mark;
- Ere set of sun the coast was far to lee,
- Where thundered over by the white-hooved sea
- The reefs lie gaunt and dark.
-
- But when we would have cast our hooks, the main
- Grew wroth a-sudden, and our captains said:
- "Seek we a shelter." And the west was red;
- God gave his winds the rein.
-
- And eastward lay the sands of which I told;
- Thither we fled, and on the narrow beach
- Drew up our keels beyond the lessening reach
- Of waters green and cold.
-
- Then set the wounded sun. The wind blew clean
- The skies. A wincing star came forth at last.
- We heard like mighty tollings on the blast
- The shock of waves unseen.
-
- The wide-winged Eagle hovered overhead;
- The Scorpion crept slowly in the south
- To pits below the horizon; in its mouth
- Lay a young moon that bled.
-
- And from our fire the ravished flame swept back,
- Like yellow hair of one who flies apace,
- Compelled in lands barbarian to race
- With lions on her track.
-
- Then from the maelstroms of the surf arose
- Wild laughter, mystical, and up the sands
- Came Two that walked with intertwining hands
- Amid those ocean snows.
-
- Ghostly they shone before the lofty spray--
- Fairer than gods and naked as the moon,
- The foamy fillets at their ankles strewn
- Less marble-white than they.
-
- Laughing they stood, then to our beacon's glare
- Drew nearer, as we watched in mad surprise
- The scarlet-flashing lips, the sea-green eyes,
- The red and tangled hair.
-
- Then spoke the god (goddess and god they seemed),
- In harplike accents of a tongue unknown--
- About his brows the dripping locks were blown;
- Like wannest gold he gleamed.
-
- Staring we sat; again the Vision spoke.
- Beyond his form we saw the billows rave,--
- The leap of those white leopards in the wave,--
- The spume of seas that broke.
-
- Yet sat we mute, for then a human word
- Seemed folly's worst. And scorn began to trace
- Its presence on the wild, imperious face;
- Again the red lips stirred,
-
- But spoke not. In an instant we were free
- From that enchantment: fleet as deer they turned
- And sudden amber leapt the sands they spurned.
- We saw them meet the sea.
-
- We heard the seven-chorded surf, unquelled,
- Call in one thunder to the granite walls;
- But over all, like broken clarion-calls,
- Disdainful laughter welled.
-
- Then silence, save for cloven wave and wind.
- Our fire had faltered on its little dune.
- Far out a fog-wall reared, and hid the moon.
- The night lay vast and blind.
-
- Silent, we waited the assuring morn,
- Which rose on angered waters. But we set
- Our hooded prows to sea, and, tempest-wet,
- Beat up the coast forlorn.
-
- And no man scorned our tale, for well they knew
- Had mystery befallen: in our eyes
- Were alien terrors and unknown surmise.
- Men saw the tale was true.
-
- And no man seeks a refuge on that shore,
- Tho tempests gather in impelling skies;
- Unseen, unsolved, unhazarded it lies,
- Forsaken evermore.
-
- For on those sands immaculate and lone
- Perchance They list the sea's immeasured lyre,
- When sunset casts an evanescent fire
- Thro billows thunder-sown.
"The Swimmers" is reprinted
from The House of Orchids and Other Poems. George Sterling.
San Francisco: A. M. Robertson, 1911. |
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POEMS BY GEORGE STERLING |
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