Woman much missed, how you call to me, call to me,
Saying that now you are not as you were
When you had changed from the one who was all to me,
But as at first, when our day was fair.
Can it be you that I hear? Let me view you, then,
Standing as when I drew near to the town
Where you would wait for me: yes, as I knew you then,
Even to the original air-blue gown!
Or is it only the breeze in its listlessness
Travelling across the wet mead to me here,
You being ever dissolved to wan wistlessness,
Heard no more again far or near?
Thus I; faltering forward,
Leaves around me falling,
Wind oozing thin through the thorn from norward,
And the woman calling.
The Convergence of the Twain
(Lines on the loss of the "Titanic")
In a solitude of the sea Deep from human vanity, And the Pride of Life that planned her, stilly couches she.
Steel chambers, late the pyres Of her salamandrine fires, Cold currents thrid, and turn to rhythmic tidal lyres.
Over the mirrors meant To glass the opulent The sea-worm crawls—grotesque, slimed, dumb, indifferent.
Jewels in joy designed To ravish the sensuous mind Lie lightless, all their sparkles bleared and black and blind.
Dim moon-eyed fishes near Gaze at the gilded gear And query: "What does this vaingloriousness down here?". . .
Well: while was fashioning This creature of cleaving wing, The Immanent Will that stirs and urges everything
Prepared a sinister mate For her—so gaily great— A Shape of Ice, for the time far and dissociate.
And as the smart ship grew In stature, grace, and hue In shadowy silent distance grew the Iceberg too.
Alien they seemed to be: No mortal eye could see The intimate welding of their later history.
Or sign that they were bent By paths coincident On being anon twin halves of one August event,
Till the Spinner of the Years Said "Now!" And each one hears, And consummation comes, and jars two hemispheres.