| |
| HE lies low in the levelled sand, | |
| Unsheltered from the tropic sun, | |
| And now of all he knew not one | |
| Will speak him fair in that far land. | |
| Perhaps ’twas this that made me seek, | 5 |
| Disguised, his grave one winter-tide; | |
| A weakness for the weaker side, | |
| A siding with the helpless weak. | |
| |
| A palm not far held out a hand, | |
| Hard by a long green bamboo swung, | 10 |
| And bent like some great bow unstrung, | |
| And quivered like a willow wand; | |
| Perched on its fruits that crooked hang, | |
| Beneath a broad banana’s leaf, | |
| A bird in rainbow splendor sang | 15 |
| A low, sad song, of tempered grief. | |
| |
| No sod, no sign, no cross nor stone, | |
| But at his side a cactus green | |
| Upheld its lances long and keen; | |
| It stood in sacred sands alone, | 20 |
| Flat-palmed and fierce with lifted spears; | |
| One bloom of crimson crowned its head, | |
| A drop of blood, so bright, so red, | |
| Yet redolent as roses’ tears. | |
| |
| In my left hand I held a shell, | 25 |
| All rosy lipped and pearly red; | |
| I laid it by his lowly bed, | |
| For he did love so passing well | |
| The grand songs of the solemn sea. | |
| O shell! sing well, wild, with a will, | 30 |
| When storms blow loud and birds be still, | |
| The wildest sea-song known to thee! | |
| |
| I said some things with folded hands, | |
| Soft whispered in the dim sea-sound, | |
| And eyes held humbly to the ground, | 35 |
| And frail knees sunken in the sands. | |
| He had done more than this for me, | |
| And yet I could not well do more: | |
| I turned me down the olive shore, | |
| And set a sad face to the sea. | 40 |
| |
