II

There are rare nights among these waterways When Spring first treads the meadows of the marsh, Leaving faint footprints of elusive green To glimmer as she strays,

Breaking the Winter silence with the harsh Sharp call of waterfowl; Rubbing dim shifting pastels in the scene With white of moon

And blur of scudding cloud, Until the myrtle thickets And the sand, The silent streams,

And the substantial land Go drifting down the tide of night Aswoon. On such a night as this

I saw the last crew go Out of a world too beautiful to leave. Only a chosen few Beside the crew

Were gathered on the pier; And in the ebb and flow Of dark and moon, we saw them fare Straight past the row of coffins

Where the fifth crew lay Waiting their last short voyage Across the bay. And, as they went, not one among them swerved,

But eyes went homing swiftly to the West, Where, faint and very few, The windows of the town called out to them Yet held them nerved

And ready for the test. Young every one, they brought life at its best. In the taut stillness, not a word Was uttered, but one heard

The deep slow orchestration of the night Swell and relapse; as swiftly, one by one, Cutting a silhouette against the gray, They rose, then dropped out softly like a dream

Into the rocking shadows of the stream. A sudden grind of metal scarred the hush; A marsh-hen threshed the water with her wings, And, for a breath, the marsh life woke and throbbed.

Then, down beneath our feet, we caught the gleam Of folded water flaring left and right, While, with a noiseless rush, A shadow darker than the rest

Drew from its fellows swarming round the quay, Took an oncoming breaker, Shook its shoulders free, And faced the sea.

Then came an interval that seemed to be Part of eternity. Years might have passed, or seconds; No one knew!

Close in the dark we huddled, each to each, Too stirred for speech. Our senses, sharpened to an agony, Drew out across the water till the ache

Was more than we could bear; Till eyes could almost see, Ears almost hear. And waiting there,

I seemed to feel the beach Slip from my reach, While all the stars went blank. The smell of oil and death enveloped me,

And I could feel The crouching figures straining at a crank, Knees under chins, and heads drawn sharply down, The heave and sag of shoulders,

Sting of sweat; An eighth braced figure stooping to a wheel, Body to body in the stifling gloom, The sob and gasp of breath against an air

Empty and damp and fetid as a tomb. With them I seemed to reel Beneath the spin and heel When combers took them fair,

Bruising their bodies, Lifting black water where Their feet clutched desperate at the floor. And as each body spent out of its ebbing store

Of strength and hope, I felt the forward thrust, At first so sure, Fail in its rhythm,

Falter slow, And slower — Hang an endless moment — Till in a rush came fear —

Fear of the sea, that it might win again, Gathering one crew more, Making them pay in vain. Then through the horror of it, like a clear

Sweet wind among the stars, I felt the lift And drive of heart and will Working their miracles until

Spent muscles tensed again to offer all In one transcendent gift.