Samuel McCoy

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!

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!