poem index

The Sirens

James Russell Lowell
   The sea is lonely, the sea is dreary, 
The sea is restless and uneasy; 
Thou seekest quiet, thou art weary, 
Wandering thou knowest not whither;— 
Our little isle is green and breezy, 
Come and rest thee! Oh come hither, 
Come to this peaceful home of ours, 
      Where evermore 
The low west-wind creeps panting up the shore 
To be at rest among the flowers; 
Full of rest, the green moss lifts, 
   As the dark waves of the sea 
Draw in and out of rocky rifts, 
   Calling solemnly to thee 
With voices deep and hollow,— 
      "To the shore 
   Follow! Oh, follow! 
   To be at rest forevermore! 
         Forevermore!" 

Look how the gray old Ocean 
From the depth of his heart rejoices, 
Heaving with a gentle motion, 
When he hears our restful voices; 
List how he sings in an undertone, 
Chiming with our melody; 
And all sweet sounds of earth and air 
Melt into one low voice alone, 
That murmurs over the weary sea, 
And seems to sing from everywhere,— 
"Here mayst thou harbor peacefully, 
Here mayst thou rest from the aching oar; 
   Turn thy curvëd prow ashore, 
And in our green isle rest forevermore! 
         Forevermore!" 
And Echo half wakes in the wooded hill, 
   And, to her heart so calm and deep, 
   Murmurs over in her sleep, 
Doubtfully pausing and murmuring still, 
         "Evermore!" 
      Thus, on Life's weary sea, 
      Heareth the marinere 
      Voices sweet, from far and near, 
      Ever singing low and clear, 
      Ever singing longingly. 

   It is not better here to be, 
Than to be toiling late and soon? 
In the dreary night to see 
Nothing but the blood-red moon 
Go up and down into the sea; 
Or, in the loneliness of day, 
   To see the still seals only 
Solemnly lift their faces gray, 
   Making it yet more lonely? 
Is it not better than to hear 
Only the sliding of the wave 
Beneath the plank, and feel so near 
A cold and lonely grave, 
A restless grave, where thou shalt lie 
Even in death unquietly? 
Look down beneath thy wave-worn bark, 
   Lean over the side and see 
The leaden eye of the sidelong shark
      Upturnëd patiently, 
   Ever waiting there for thee: 
Look down and see those shapeless forms, 
   Which ever keep their dreamless sleep 
   Far down within the gloomy deep, 
And only stir themselves in storms, 
Rising like islands from beneath, 
And snorting through the angry spray, 
As the frail vessel perisheth 
In the whirls of their unwieldy play; 
   Look down! Look down! 
Upon the seaweed, slimy and dark, 
That waves its arms so lank and brown, 
      Beckoning for thee! 
Look down beneath thy wave-worn bark 
      Into the cold depth of the sea! 
   Look down! Look down! 
      Thus, on Life's lonely sea, 
      Heareth the marinere 
      Voices sad, from far and near, 
      Ever singing full of fear, 
      Ever singing dreadfully. 

   Here all is pleasant as a dream; 
The wind scarce shaketh down the dew, 
The green grass floweth like a stream 
         Into the ocean's blue; 
            Listen! Oh, listen! 
Here is a gush of many streams, 
   A song of many birds, 
And every wish and longing seems 
Lulled to a numbered flow of words,— 
            Listen! Oh, listen! 
Here ever hum the golden bees 
Underneath full-blossomed trees, 
At once with glowing fruit and flowers crowned;— 
So smooth the sand, the yellow sand, 
That thy keel will not grate as it touches the land; 
All around with a slumberous sound, 
The singing waves slide up the strand, 
And there, where the smooth, wet pebbles be 
The waters gurgle longingly, 
As if they fain would seek the shore, 
To be at rest from the ceaseless roar, 
To be at rest forevermore,— 
         Forevermore. 
      Thus, on Life's gloomy sea, 
      Heareth the marinere 
      Voices sweet, from far and near, 
      Ever singing in his ear, 
      "Here is rest and peace for thee!"

July, 1840. This poem is in the public domain.

James Russell Lowell

by this poet

poem
May is a pious fraud of the almanac,
A ghastly parody of real Spring
Shaped out of snow and breathed with eastern wind;
Or if, o'er-confident, she trust the date,
And, with her handful of anemones,
Herself as shivery, steal into the sun,
The season need but turn his hourglass round,
And Winter suddenly, like
poem
The snow had begun in the gloaming,
   And busily all the night
Had been heaping field and highway
   With a silence deep and white.
   
Every pine and fir and hemlock
   Wore ermine too dear for an earl,
And the poorest twig on the elm-tree
   Was ridged inch deep with pearl.

From sheds new-roofed with Carrara
poem
And what is so rare as a day in June?
     Then, if ever, come perfect days;
Then Heaven tries the earth if it be in tune,
     And over it softly her warm ear lays:
Whether we look, or whether we listen,
We hear life murmur, or see it glisten;
Every clod feels a stir of might,
     An instinct within it that