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Dirge for a Dead AdmiralAuthor(s): Samuel McCoySource: Poetry, Vol. 1, No. 6 (Mar., 1913), pp. 187-188Published by: Poetry FoundationStable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/20569723 .
Accessed: 22/05/2014 09:38
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Poems: Samuel McCoy
DIRGE FOR A DEAD ADMIRAL
What woman but would be Rid of thy mastery, Thou bully of the sea?
No more the gray sea's breast Need answer thy behest; No more thy sullen gun Shall greet the risen sun, Where the great dreadnaughts ride The breast of thy cold bride; Thou hast fulfilled thy fate: Need trade no more with hate!
Nay, but I celebrate Thy long-to-be-lorn mate, Thy mistress and her state, Thy lady sea's lorn state. She hath her empery Not only over thee But o'er our misery.
Hark, doth she mourn for thee?
Nay, what hath she of grief? She knoweth not the leaf That on her bosom falls, Thou last of admirals!
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POETRY: A Magazine of Verre
Under the winter moon She singeth that fierce tune, Her immemorial rune; Knoweth not, late or soon, Careth not Any jot For her withholden boon To all thy spirit's pleas For infinite surcease!
If, on this winter night, O thou great admiral That in thy sombre pall Liest upon the land, Thy soul should take his flight And leave the frozen sand, And yearn above the surge, Think'st thou that any dirge, Grief inarticulate From thy bereaved mate, Would answer to thy soul Where the waste waters roll?
Nay, thou hast need of none! Thy long love-watch is done!
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