The Old Sloop

Far away, among the uplands, sleeps he
Whose strong arm oft held your restless wheel.
When sails felt the touch
Of summer winds blowing fair and free
Or close reefed–driving before a gale–
His steady hands held you onward.
Now, amid green marshes, rippling westward
Across the old bay where oftentimes
Your keel has traced a trackless course;
Reclines the old sloop, dismantled and alone
Lost without that guiding hand.
Yet, at times, you are not lifeless.
When day dims and shadows come, around
The weathered spars, in dark flurries
Sweep the swallow people–their little forms
Crowd ratlines and shrouds–the slack stay
Holds upon its curve ahundred tiny lives.
Far and near the swirling eddies sweep
Filling the evening air with twittering life.