(For My Mother)
The fragile splendour of the level sea, The moon's serene and silver-veiled face, Make of this vessel an enchanted place Full of white mirth and golden sorcery.
Now, for a time, shall careless laughter be Blended with song, to lend song sweeter grace, And the old stars, in their unending race, Shall heed and envy young humanity.
And yet to-night, a hundred leagues away, These waters blush a strange and awful red.
Before the moon, a cloud obscenely grey Rises from decks that crash with flying lead.
And these stars smile their immemorial way On waves that shroud a thousand newly dead!
