Daily Whitman


The Sleepers

  I turn but do not extricate myself,
  Confused, a past-reading, another, but with darkness yet.

  The beach is cut by the razory ice-wind, the wreck-guns sound,
  The tempest lulls, the moon comes floundering through the drifts.

  I look where the ship helplessly heads end on, I hear the burst as
      she strikes, I hear the howls of dismay, they grow fainter and fainter.

  I cannot aid with my wringing fingers,
  I can but rush to the surf and let it drench me and freeze upon me.

  I search with the crowd, not one of the company is wash'd to us alive,
  In the morning I help pick up the dead and lay them in rows in a barn.


Posted on 01/06/2015, in literature, poetry and tagged , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.

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