Page:Words for the Chisel (1926).pdf/26

Eric was dying now, warping and grim:
He always took the boy to sea with him.

She never dreaded sickness,—only feared
This Swedish love of water. She would be
On the old wharf-end always when he neared
Drawing him back to make him anchor. He
Climbed like a sailor, agile, prancingly,
But he was polished bronze, and walked as one
Whose race had been emboldened by the sun.

She spread a net to keep him in the brief
Time of his staying,—wore a sheer dress,
Yellow and red, a spotted mango-leaf
That eddied on her body. Happiness
Ran in her voice. Minnows and water-cress,
All little treasures she had gleaned she poured
Out on the pier before him. Ocean roared.

It was a day as light and sunny sweet
As any in a valley. Flashing brown,
The boy was diving, circling at her feet,
And she would lean and almost wish to drown,
Then up he climbed. And suddenly plunged down
Dragging her with him under and under. They
Always were terrified, after that day.

So, like a landsman, this young Eric stood
In the low door-way of the little den
Unable to go back to ship. One mood
Hung over both. The night was full of men
Putting to sea and sea was loud again