Best Famous Creaming Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Creaming poems. This is a select list of the best famous Creaming poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Creaming poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of creaming poems.

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Written by Matthew Arnold | The Strayed Reveller 1 Faster, faster, 2 O Circe, Goddess, 3 Let the wild, thronging train 4 The bright procession 5 Of eddying forms, 6 Sweep through my soul! 7 Thou standest, smiling 8 Down on me! thy right arm, 9 Lean'd up against the column there, 10 Props thy soft cheek; 11 Thy left holds, hanging loosely, 12 The deep cup, ivy-cinctured, 13 I held but now. 14 Is it, then, evening 15 So soon? I see, the night-dews, 16 Cluster'd in thick beads, dim 17 The agate brooch-stones 18 On thy white shoulder; 19 The cool night-wind, too, 20 Blows through the portico, 21 Stirs thy hair, Goddess, 22 Waves thy white robe! Circe. 23 Whence art thou, sleeper? The Youth. 24 When the white dawn first 25 Through the rough fir-planks 26 Of my hut, by the chestnuts, 27 Up at the valley-head, 28 Came breaking, Goddess! 29 I sprang up, I threw round me 30 My dappled fawn-skin; 31 Passing out, from the wet turf, 32 Where they lay, by the hut door, 33 I snatch'd up my vine-crown, my fir-staff, 34 All drench'd in dew- 35 Came swift down to join 36 The rout early gather'd 37 In the town, round the temple, 38 Iacchus' white fane 39 On yonder hill. 40 Quick I pass'd, following 41 The wood-cutters' cart-track 42 Down the dark valley;-I saw 43 On my left, through the beeches, 44 Thy palace, Goddess, 45 Smokeless, empty! 46 Trembling, I enter'd; beheld 47 The court all silent, 48 The lions sleeping, 49 On the altar this bowl. 50 I drank, Goddess! 51 And sank down here, sleeping, 52 On the steps of thy portico. Circe. 53 Foolish boy! Why tremblest thou? 54 Thou lovest it, then, my wine? 55 Wouldst more of it? See, how glows, 56 Through the delicate, flush'd marble, 57 The red, creaming liquor, 58 Strown with dark seeds! 59 Drink, thee! I chide thee not, 60 Deny thee not my bowl. 61 Come, stretch forth thy hand, thee-so! 62 Drink-drink again! The Youth. 63 Thanks, gracious one! 64 Ah, the sweet fumes again! 65 More soft, ah me, 66 More subtle-winding 67 Than Pan's flute-music! 68 Faint-faint! Ah me, 69 Again the sweet sleep! Circe. 70 Hist! Thou-within there! 71 Come forth, Ulysses! 72 Art tired with hunting? 73 While we range the woodland, 74 See what the day brings. Ulysses. 75 Ever new magic! 76 Hast thou then lured hither, 77 Wonderful Goddess, by thy art, 78 The young, languid-eyed Ampelus, 79 Iacchus' darling- 80 Or some youth beloved of Pan, 81 Of Pan and the Nymphs? 82 That he sits, bending downward 83 His white, delicate neck 84 To the ivy-wreathed marge 85 Of thy cup; the bright, glancing vine-leaves 86 That crown his hair, 87 Falling forward, mingling 88 With the dark ivy-plants-- 89 His fawn-skin, half untied, 90 Smear'd with red wine-stains? Who is he, 91 That he sits, overweigh'd 92 By fumes of wine and sleep, 93 So late, in thy portico? 94 What youth, Goddess,-what guest 95 Of Gods or mortals? Circe. 96 Hist! he wakes! 97 I lured him not hither, Ulysses. 98 Nay, ask him! The Youth. 99 Who speaks' Ah, who comes forth 100 To thy side, Goddess, from within? 101 How shall I name him? 102 This spare, dark-featured, 103 Quick-eyed stranger? 104 Ah, and I see too 105 His sailor's bonnet, 106 His short coat, travel-tarnish'd, 107 With one arm bare!-- 108 Art thou not he, whom fame 109 This long time rumours 110 The favour'd guest of Circe, brought by the waves? 111 Art thou he, stranger? 112 The wise Ulysses, 113 Laertes' son? Ulysses. 114 I am Ulysses. 115 And thou, too, sleeper? 116 Thy voice is sweet. 117 It may be thou hast follow'd 118 Through the islands some divine bard, 119 By age taught many things, 120 Age and the Muses; 121 And heard him delighting 122 The chiefs and people 123 In the banquet, and learn'd his songs. 124 Of Gods and Heroes, 125 Of war and arts, 126 And peopled cities, 127 Inland, or built 128 By the gray sea.-If so, then hail! 129 I honour and welcome thee. The Youth. 130 The Gods are happy. 131 They turn on all sides 132 Their shining eyes, 133 And see below them 134 The earth and men. 135 They see Tiresias 136 Sitting, staff in hand, 137 On the warm, grassy 138 Asopus bank, 139 His robe drawn over 140 His old sightless head, 141 Revolving inly 142 The doom of Thebes. 143 They see the Centaurs 144 In the upper glens 145 Of Pelion, in the streams, 146 Where red-berried ashes fringe 147 The clear-brown shallow pools, 148 With streaming flanks, and heads 149 Rear'd proudly, snuffing 150 The mountain wind. 151 They see the Indian 152 Drifting, knife in hand, 153 His frail boat moor'd to 154 A floating isle thick-matted 155 With large-leaved, low-creeping melon-plants 156 And the dark cucumber. 157 He reaps, and stows them, 158 Drifting--drifting;--round him, 159 Round his green harvest-plot, 160 Flow the cool lake-waves, 161 The mountains ring them. 162 They see the Scythian 163 On the wide stepp, unharnessing 164 His wheel'd house at noon. 165 He tethers his beast down, and makes his meal-- 166 Mares' milk, and bread 167 Baked on the embers;--all around 168 The boundless, waving grass-plains stretch, thick-starr'd 169 With saffron and the yellow hollyhock 170 And flag-leaved iris-flowers. 171 Sitting in his cart 172 He makes his meal; before him, for long miles, 173 Alive with bright green lizards, 174 And the springing bustard-fowl, 175 The track, a straight black line, 176 Furrows the rich soil; here and there 177 Cluster of lonely mounds 178 Topp'd with rough-hewn, 179 Gray, rain-blear'd statues, overpeer 180 The sunny waste. 181 They see the ferry 182 On the broad, clay-laden 183 Lone Chorasmian stream;--thereon, 184 With snort and strain, 185 Two horses, strongly swimming, tow 186 The ferry-boat, with woven ropes 187 To either bow 188 Firm harness'd by the mane; a chief 189 With shout and shaken spear, 190 Stands at the prow, and guides them; but astern 191 The cowering merchants, in long robes, 192 Sit pale beside their wealth 193 Of silk-bales and of balsam-drops, 194 Of gold and ivory, 195 Of turquoise-earth and amethyst, 196 Jasper and chalcedony, 197 And milk-barred onyx-stones. 198 The loaded boat swings groaning 199 In the yellow eddies; 200 The Gods behold him. 201 They see the Heroes 202 Sitting in the dark ship 203 On the foamless, long-heaving 204 Violet sea. 205 At sunset nearing 206 The Happy Islands. 207 These things, Ulysses, 208 The wise bards, also 209 Behold and sing. 210 But oh, what labour! 211 O prince, what pain! 212 They too can see 213 Tiresias;--but the Gods, 214 Who give them vision, 215 Added this law: 216 That they should bear too 217 His groping blindness, 218 His dark foreboding, 219 His scorn'd white hairs; 220 Bear Hera's anger 221 Through a life lengthen'd 222 To seven ages. 223 They see the Centaurs 224 On Pelion:--then they feel, 225 They too, the maddening wine 226 Swell their large veins to bursting; in wild pain 227 They feel the biting spears 228 Of the grim Lapith?, and Theseus, drive, 229 Drive crashing through their bones; they feel 230 High on a jutting rock in the red stream 231 Alcmena's dreadful son 232 Ply his bow;--such a price 233 The Gods exact for song: 234 To become what we sing. 235 They see the Indian 236 On his mountain lake; but squalls 237 Make their skiff reel, and worms 238 In the unkind spring have gnawn 239 Their melon-harvest to the heart.--They see 240 The Scythian: but long frosts 241 Parch them in winter-time on the bare stepp, 242 Till they too fade like grass; they crawl 243 Like shadows forth in spring. 244 They see the merchants 245 On the Oxus stream;--but care 246 Must visit first them too, and make them pale. 247 Whether, through whirling sand, 248 A cloud of desert robber-horse have burst 249 Upon their caravan; or greedy kings, 250 In the wall'd cities the way passes through, 251 Crush'd them with tolls; or fever-airs, 252 On some great river's marge, 253 Mown them down, far from home. 254 They see the Heroes 255 Near harbour;--but they share 256 Their lives, and former violent toil in Thebes, 257 Seven-gated Thebes, or Troy; 258 Or where the echoing oars 259 Of Argo first 260 Startled the unknown sea. 261 The old Silenus 262 Came, lolling in the sunshine, 263 From the dewy forest-coverts, 264 This way at noon. 265 Sitting by me, while his Fauns 266 Down at the water-side 267 Sprinkled and smoothed 268 His drooping garland, 269 He told me these things. 270 But I, Ulysses, 271 Sitting on the warm steps, 272 Looking over the valley, 273 All day long, have seen, 274 Without pain, without labour, 275 Sometimes a wild-hair'd M?nad-- 276 Sometimes a Faun with torches-- 277 And sometimes, for a moment, 278 Passing through the dark stems 279 Flowing-robed, the beloved, 280 The desired, the divine, 281 Beloved Iacchus. 282 Ah, cool night-wind, tremulous stars! 283 Ah, glimmering water, 284 Fitful earth-murmur, 285 Dreaming woods! 286 Ah, golden-haired, strangely smiling Goddess, 287 And thou, proved, much enduring, 288 Wave-toss'd Wanderer! 289 Who can stand still? 290 Ye fade, ye swim, ye waver before me-- 291 The cup again! 292 Faster, faster, 293 O Circe, Goddess. 294 Let the wild, thronging train, 295 The bright procession 296 Of eddying forms, 297 Sweep through my soul!

Written by John Clare | Christmass Christmass is come and every hearth Makes room to give him welcome now Een want will dry its tears in mirth And crown him wi a holly bough Tho tramping neath a winters sky Oer snow track paths and ryhmey stiles The huswife sets her spining bye And bids him welcome wi her smiles Each house is swept the day before And windows stuck wi evergreens The snow is beesomd from the door And comfort crowns the cottage scenes Gilt holly wi its thorny pricks And yew and box wi berrys small These deck the unusd candlesticks And pictures hanging by the wall Neighbours resume their anual cheer Wishing wi smiles and spirits high Clad christmass and a happy year To every morning passer bye Milk maids their christmass journeys go Accompanyd wi favourd swain And childern pace the crumping snow To taste their grannys cake again Hung wi the ivys veining bough The ash trees round the cottage farm Are often stript of branches now The cotters christmass hearth to warm He swings and twists his hazel band And lops them off wi sharpend hook And oft brings ivy in his hand To decorate the chimney nook Old winter whipes his ides bye And warms his fingers till he smiles Where cottage hearths are blazing high And labour resteth from his toils Wi merry mirth beguiling care Old customs keeping wi the day Friends meet their christmass cheer to share And pass it in a harmless way Old customs O I love the sound However simple they may be What ere wi time has sanction found Is welcome and is dear to me Pride grows above simplicity And spurns it from her haughty mind And soon the poets song will be The only refuge they can find The shepherd now no more afraid Since custom doth the chance bestow Starts up to kiss the giggling maid Beneath the branch of mizzletoe That neath each cottage beam is seen Wi pearl-like-berrys shining gay The shadow still of what hath been Which fashion yearly fades away And singers too a merry throng At early morn wi simple skill Yet imitate the angels song And chant their christmass ditty still And mid the storm that dies and swells By fits-in humings softly steals The music of the village bells Ringing round their merry peals And when its past a merry crew Bedeckt in masks and ribbons gay The 'Morrice danse' their sports renew And act their winter evening play The clown-turnd-kings for penny praise Storm wi the actors strut and swell And harlequin a laugh to raise Wears his hump back and tinkling bell And oft for pence and spicy ale Wi winter nosgays pind before The wassail singer tells her tale And drawls her christmass carrols oer The prentice boy wi ruddy face And ryhme bepowderd dancing locks From door to door wi happy pace Runs round to claim his 'christmass box' The block behind the fire is put To sanction customs old desires And many a faggots bands are cut For the old farmers christmass fires Where loud tongd gladness joins the throng And winter meets the warmth of may Feeling by times the heat too strong And rubs his shins and draws away While snows the window panes bedim The fire curls up a sunny charm Where creaming oer the pitchers rim The flowering ale is set to warm Mirth full of joy as summer bees Sits there its pleasures to impart While childern tween their parents knees Sing scraps of carrols oer by heart And some to view the winter weathers Climb up the window seat wi glee Likening the snow to falling feathers In fancys infant extacy Laughing wi superstitious love Oer visions wild that youth supplyes Of people pulling geese above And keeping christmass in the skyes As tho the homstead trees were drest In lieu of snow wi dancing leaves As. tho the sundryd martins nest Instead of ides hung the eaves The childern hail the happy day As if the snow was april grass And pleasd as neath the warmth of may Sport oer the water froze to glass Thou day of happy sound and mirth That long wi childish memory stays How blest around the cottage hearth I met thee in my boyish days Harping wi raptures dreaming joys On presents that thy coming found The welcome sight of little toys The christmass gifts of comers round 'The wooden horse wi arching head Drawn upon wheels around the room The gilded coach of ginger bread And many colord sugar plumb Gilt coverd books for pictures sought Or storys childhood loves to tell Wi many a urgent promise bought To get tomorrows lesson well And many a thing a minutes sport Left broken on the sanded floor When we woud leave our play and court Our parents promises for more Tho manhood bids such raptures dye And throws such toys away as vain Yet memory loves to turn her eye And talk such pleasures oer again Around the glowing hearth at night The harmless laugh and winter tale Goes round-while parting friends delight To toast each other oer their ale The cotter oft wi quiet zeal Will musing oer his bible lean While in the dark the lovers steal To kiss and toy behind the screen The yule cake dotted thick wi plumbs Is on each supper table found And cats look up for falling crumbs Which greedy childern litter round And huswifes sage stuffd seasond chine Long hung in chimney nook to drye And boiling eldern berry wine To drink the christmass eves 'good bye'

Written by Sylvia Plath | Stings Bare-handed, I hand the combs. The man in white smiles, bare-handed, Our cheesecloth gauntlets neat and sweet, The throats of our wrists brave lilies. He and I Have a thousand clean cells between us, Eight combs of yellow cups, And the hive itself a teacup, White with pink flowers on it, With excessive love I enameled it Thinking 'Sweetness, sweetness.' Brood cells gray as the fossils of shells Terrify me, they seem so old. What am I buying, wormy mahogany? Is there any queen at all in it? If there is, she is old, Her wings torn shawls, her long body Rubbed of its plush ---- Poor and bare and unqueenly and even shameful. I stand in a column Of winged, unmiraculous women, Honey-drudgers. I am no drudge Though for years I have eaten dust And dried plates with my dense hair. And seen my strangeness evaporate, Blue dew from dangerous skin. Will they hate me, These women who only scurry, Whose news is the open cherry, the open clover? It is almost over. I am in control. Here is my honey-machine, It will work without thinking, Opening, in spring, like an industrious virgin To scour the creaming crests As the moon, for its ivory powders, scours the sea. A third person is watching. He has nothing to do with the bee-seller or with me. Now he is gone In eight great bounds, a great scapegoat. Here is his slipper, here is another, And here the square of white linen He wore instead of a hat. He was sweet, The sweat of his efforts a rain Tugging the world to fruit. The bees found him out, Molding onto his lips like lies, Complicating his features. They thought death was worth it, but I Have a self to recover, a queen. Is she dead, is she sleeping? Where has she been, With her lion-red body, her wings of glass? Now she is flying More terrible than she ever was, red Scar in the sky, red comet Over the engine that killed her ---- The mausoleum, the wax house.

Written by Matthew Arnold | Strayed Reveller The The Youth Faster, faster, O Circe, Goddess, Let the wild, thronging train The bright procession Of eddying forms, Sweep through my soul! Thou standest, smiling Down on me! thy right arm, Lean'd up against the column there, Props thy soft cheek; Thy left holds, hanging loosely, The deep cup, ivy-cinctured, I held but now. Is it, then, evening So soon? I see, the night-dews, Cluster'd in thick beads, dim The agate brooch-stones On thy white shoulder; The cool night-wind, too, Blows through the portico, Stirs thy hair, Goddess, Waves thy white robe! Circe. Whence art thou, sleeper? The Youth. When the white dawn first Through the rough fir-planks Of my hut, by the chestnuts, Up at the valley-head, Came breaking, Goddess! I sprang up, I threw round me My dappled fawn-skin; Passing out, from the wet turf, Where they lay, by the hut door, I snatch'd up my vine-crown, my fir-staff, All drench'd in dew- Came swift down to join The rout early gather'd In the town, round the temple, Iacchus' white fane On yonder hill. Quick I pass'd, following The wood-cutters' cart-track Down the dark valley;-I saw On my left, through the beeches, Thy palace, Goddess, Smokeless, empty! Trembling, I enter'd; beheld The court all silent, The lions sleeping, On the altar this bowl. I drank, Goddess! And sank down here, sleeping, On the steps of thy portico. Circe. Foolish boy! Why tremblest thou? Thou lovest it, then, my wine? Wouldst more of it? See, how glows, Through the delicate, flush'd marble, The red, creaming liquor, Strown with dark seeds! Drink, thee! I chide thee not, Deny thee not my bowl. Come, stretch forth thy hand, thee-so! Drink-drink again! The Youth. Thanks, gracious one! Ah, the sweet fumes again! More soft, ah me, More subtle-winding Than Pan's flute-music! Faint-faint! Ah me, Again the sweet sleep! Circe. Hist! Thou-within there! Come forth, Ulysses! Art tired with hunting? While we range the woodland, See what the day brings. Ulysses. Ever new magic! Hast thou then lured hither, Wonderful Goddess, by thy art, The young, languid-eyed Ampelus, Iacchus' darling- Or some youth beloved of Pan, Of Pan and the Nymphs? That he sits, bending downward His white, delicate neck To the ivy-wreathed marge Of thy cup; the bright, glancing vine-leaves That crown his hair, Falling forward, mingling With the dark ivy-plants-- His fawn-skin, half untied, Smear'd with red wine-stains? Who is he, That he sits, overweigh'd By fumes of wine and sleep, So late, in thy portico? What youth, Goddess,-what guest Of Gods or mortals? Circe. Hist! he wakes! I lured him not hither, Ulysses. Nay, ask him! The Youth. Who speaks' Ah, who comes forth To thy side, Goddess, from within? How shall I name him? This spare, dark-featured, Quick-eyed stranger? Ah, and I see too His sailor's bonnet, His short coat, travel-tarnish'd, With one arm bare!-- Art thou not he, whom fame This long time rumours The favour'd guest of Circe, brought by the waves? Art thou he, stranger? The wise Ulysses, Laertes' son? Ulysses. I am Ulysses. And thou, too, sleeper? Thy voice is sweet. It may be thou hast follow'd Through the islands some divine bard, By age taught many things, Age and the Muses; And heard him delighting The chiefs and people In the banquet, and learn'd his songs. Of Gods and Heroes, Of war and arts, And peopled cities, Inland, or built By the gray sea.-If so, then hail! I honour and welcome thee. The Youth. The Gods are happy. They turn on all sides Their shining eyes, And see below them The earth and men. They see Tiresias Sitting, staff in hand, On the warm, grassy Asopus bank, His robe drawn over His old sightless head, Revolving inly The doom of Thebes. They see the Centaurs In the upper glens Of Pelion, in the streams, Where red-berried ashes fringe The clear-brown shallow pools, With streaming flanks, and heads Rear'd proudly, snuffing The mountain wind. They see the Indian Drifting, knife in hand, His frail boat moor'd to A floating isle thick-matted With large-leaved, low-creeping melon-plants And the dark cucumber. He reaps, and stows them, Drifting--drifting;--round him, Round his green harvest-plot, Flow the cool lake-waves, The mountains ring them. They see the Scythian On the wide stepp, unharnessing His wheel'd house at noon. He tethers his beast down, and makes his meal-- Mares' milk, and bread Baked on the embers;--all around The boundless, waving grass-plains stretch, thick-starr'd With saffron and the yellow hollyhock And flag-leaved iris-flowers. Sitting in his cart He makes his meal; before him, for long miles, Alive with bright green lizards, And the springing bustard-fowl, The track, a straight black line, Furrows the rich soil; here and there Cluster of lonely mounds Topp'd with rough-hewn, Gray, rain-blear'd statues, overpeer The sunny waste. They see the ferry On the broad, clay-laden Lone Chorasmian stream;--thereon, With snort and strain, Two horses, strongly swimming, tow The ferry-boat, with woven ropes To either bow Firm harness'd by the mane; a chief With shout and shaken spear, Stands at the prow, and guides them; but astern The cowering merchants, in long robes, Sit pale beside their wealth Of silk-bales and of balsam-drops, Of gold and ivory, Of turquoise-earth and amethyst, Jasper and chalcedony, And milk-barred onyx-stones. The loaded boat swings groaning In the yellow eddies; The Gods behold him. They see the Heroes Sitting in the dark ship On the foamless, long-heaving Violet sea. At sunset nearing The Happy Islands. These things, Ulysses, The wise bards, also Behold and sing. But oh, what labour! O prince, what pain! They too can see Tiresias;--but the Gods, Who give them vision, Added this law: That they should bear too His groping blindness, His dark foreboding, His scorn'd white hairs; Bear Hera's anger Through a life lengthen'd To seven ages. They see the Centaurs On Pelion:--then they feel, They too, the maddening wine Swell their large veins to bursting; in wild pain They feel the biting spears Of the grim Lapith?, and Theseus, drive, Drive crashing through their bones; they feel High on a jutting rock in the red stream Alcmena's dreadful son Ply his bow;--such a price The Gods exact for song: To become what we sing. They see the Indian On his mountain lake; but squalls Make their skiff reel, and worms In the unkind spring have gnawn Their melon-harvest to the heart.--They see The Scythian: but long frosts Parch them in winter-time on the bare stepp, Till they too fade like grass; they crawl Like shadows forth in spring. They see the merchants On the Oxus stream;--but care Must visit first them too, and make them pale. Whether, through whirling sand, A cloud of desert robber-horse have burst Upon their caravan; or greedy kings, In the wall'd cities the way passes through, Crush'd them with tolls; or fever-airs, On some great river's marge, Mown them down, far from home. They see the Heroes Near harbour;--but they share Their lives, and former violent toil in Thebes, Seven-gated Thebes, or Troy; Or where the echoing oars Of Argo first Startled the unknown sea. The old Silenus Came, lolling in the sunshine, From the dewy forest-coverts, This way at noon. Sitting by me, while his Fauns Down at the water-side Sprinkled and smoothed His drooping garland, He told me these things. But I, Ulysses, Sitting on the warm steps, Looking over the valley, All day long, have seen, Without pain, without labour, Sometimes a wild-hair'd M?nad-- Sometimes a Faun with torches-- And sometimes, for a moment, Passing through the dark stems Flowing-robed, the beloved, The desired, the divine, Beloved Iacchus. Ah, cool night-wind, tremulous stars! Ah, glimmering water, Fitful earth-murmur, Dreaming woods! Ah, golden-haired, strangely smiling Goddess, And thou, proved, much enduring, Wave-toss'd Wanderer! Who can stand still? Ye fade, ye swim, ye waver before me-- The cup again! Faster, faster, O Circe, Goddess. Let the wild, thronging train, The bright procession Of eddying forms, Sweep through my soul!

Written by Bliss Carman | White Nassau There is fog upon the river, there is mirk upon the town; You can hear the groping ferries as they hoot each other down; From the Battery to Harlem there's seven miles of slush, Through looming granite canyons of glitter, noise, and rush. Are you sick of phones and tickers and crazing cable gongs, Of the theatres, the hansoms, and the breathless Broadway throngs, Of Flouret's and the Waldorf and the chilly, drizzly Park, When there's hardly any morning and five o'clock is dark? I know where there's a city, whose streets are white and clean, And sea-blue morning loiters by walls where roses lean, And quiet dwells; that's Nassau, beside her creaming key, The queen of the Lucayas in the blue Bahaman sea. She's ringed with surf and coral, she's crowned with sun and palm; She has the old-world leisure, the regal tropic calm; The trade winds fan her forehead; in everlasting June She reigns from deep verandas above her blue lagoon. She has had many suitors,--Spaniard and Buccaneer,-- Who roistered for her beauty and spilt their blood for her; But none has dared molest her, since the Loyalist Deveaux Went down from Carolina a hundred years ago. Unmodern, undistracted, by grassy ramp and fort, In decency and order she holds her modest court; She seems to have forgotten rapine and greed and strife, In that unaging gladness and dignity of life. Through streets as smooth as asphalt and white as bleaching shell, Where the slip-shod heel is happy and the naked foot goes well, In their gaudy cotton kerchiefs, with swaying hips and free, Go her black folk in the morning to the market of the sea. Into her bright sea-gardens the flushing tide-gates lead, Where fins of chrome and scarlet loll in the lifting weed; With the long sea-draft behind them, through luring coral groves The shiny water-people go by in painted droves. Under her old pink gateways, where Time a moment turns, Where hang the orange lanterns and the red hibiscus burns, Live the harmless merry lizards, quicksilver in the sun, Or still as any image with their shadow on a stone. Through the lemon-trees at leisure a tiny olive bird Moves all day long and utters his wise assuring word; While up in their blue chantry murmur the solemn palms. At their litanies of joyance, their ancient ceaseless psalms. There in the endless sunlight, within the surf's low sound, Peace tarries for a lifetime at doorways unrenowned; And a velvet air goes breathing across the sea-girt land, Till the sense begins to waken and the soul to understand. There's a pier in the East River, where a black Ward Liner lies, With her wheezy donkey-engines taking cargo and supplies; She will clear the Hook to-morrow for the Indies of the West, For the lovely white girl city in the Islands of the Blest. She'll front the riding winter on the gray Atlantic seas, And thunder through the surf-heads till her funnels crust and freeze; She'll grapple the Southeaster, the Thing without a Mind, Till she drops him, mad and monstrous, with the light ship far behind. Then out into a morning all summer warmth and blue! By the breathing of her pistons, by the purring of the screw, By the springy dip and tremor as she rises, you can tell Her heart is light and easy as she meets the lazy swell. With the flying fish before her, and the white wake running aft, Her smoke-wreath hanging idle, without breeze enough for draft, She will travel fair and steady, and in the afternoon Run down the floating palm-tops where lift the Isles of June. With the low boom of breakers for her only signal gun, She will anchor off the harbor when her thousand miles are done, And there's my love, white Nassau, girt with her foaming key, The queen of the Lucayas in the blue Bahaman sea!