Dora Sigerson Shorter: A Ballad of Marjorie

‘What ails you that you look so pale,
O fisher of the sea?’
”Tis for a mournful tale I own,
Fair maiden Marjorie.’
‘What is the dreary tale to tell,
O toiler of the sea?’
‘I cast my net into the waves,
Sweet maiden Marjorie.
‘I cast my net into the tide,
Before I made for home;
Too heavy for my hands to raise,
I drew it through the foam.’
‘What saw you that you look so pale,
Sad searcher of the sea?’
‘A dead man’s body from the deep
My haul had brought to me!’
‘And was he young, and was he fair?’
‘Oh, cruel to behold!
In his white face the joy of life
Not yet was grown a-cold.’
‘Oh, pale you are, and full of prayer
For one who sails the sea.’
‘Because the dead looked up and spoke,
Poor maiden Marjorie.’

‘What said he, that you seem so sad,
O fisher of the sea?
(Alack! I know it was my love,
Who fain would speak to me!)’
‘He said, ‘Beware a woman’s mouth—
A rose that bears a thorn.’’
‘Ah, me! these lips shall smile no more
That gave my lover scorn.’
‘He said, ‘Beware a woman’s eyes.
They pierce you with their death.’’
‘Then falling tears shall make them blind
That robbed my dear of breath.’
‘He said, ‘Beware a woman’s hair—
A serpent’s coil of gold.’’
‘Then will I shear the cruel locks
That crushed him in their fold.’
‘He said, ‘Beware a woman’s heart
As you would shun the reef.’’
‘So let it break within my breast,
And perish of my grief.’
‘He raised his hands a woman’s name
Thrice bitterly he cried
My net had parted with the strain;
He vanished in the tide.’
‘A woman’s name! What name but mine,
O fisher of the sea?’
‘A woman’s name, but not your name,
Poor maiden Marjorie.’

Dora Sigerson Shorter: The Sea Hounds

‘There’s a hound at the door, Shawn O’Farrell,
There’s a hound at the door.
If you take down the bar or the shutter,
I shall see you no more,
I shall see you no more!’

‘Oh, it is but the sea that is loosing
The white dogs of its spray.
Take your gentle young arms from about me,
For I must on my way.’

‘But they whine at the window, O’Farrell,
How they sniff at the pane!’
‘Oh, it is but the wind in its passing,
The wild wind and the rain.’

‘How they keen in their waiting, O’Farrell,
So I hold you, afraid.’
”Tis some soul that’s nigh lost in the tempest
Who so calls for my aid.’

‘It’s a witch of the waters, O’Farrell,
All sea-cold and wave-white,
With her hounds that will fawn till you follow
To your death in the night.’

He has opened the door, Shawn O’Farrell,
And gone forth to the dark;
The wild hounds by his heel race and quarrel,
How they leap and they bark!

He has launched his frail boat on the waters—
He has pushed from the shore!
Pray, oh, pray for the soul of O’Farrell,
He shall come back no more.
‘Shawn O’Farrell, O’Farrell, O’Farrell,
I shall see you no more!’

Dora Sigerson Shorter: The Sea Maiden

I drew her out of the wave
High up on the windy shore.
Oh, never a fish I caught
So fair in my net before.
And white she was as the foam
That flies from the storm-whipped sea;
I held her close to my heart,
Where at rest she would not be.
Swift she turned her east and west,
Slow she turned her north and south;
The salt from her weed-brown hair
Stung bitter upon my mouth.
I drew her close to my heart,
And I kissed her wave-wet cheek;
Till fear went out of her eyes
At the love my lips did speak.

And soon, for a hedge-grove flower
She followed me by the hill,
Where call of the sea was lost,
And fall of the wave was still.
And long in my garden fair
She laughed in her strange delight
At swaying of roses red,
At perfume of lilies white.
I clad her in robes of silk,
I shod her in shoon of gold;
And jewel and gem I found
For her slender hands to hold,
Full many a priceless gift
That my nets had brought to me,
From grasp of the restless dead
Who move in deep of the sea.
And I sung to make her glad,
And I laughed to see her play,
As I shook my nets in the sun
All out in the golden day.

But alack! for joy too brief,
There rolled and tinkling fell,
From twist and twine of the net
A knarled and curséd shell.
She held it high in her hand;
I knew she was lost to me.
She laid her lips to its pearl
And heard the call of the sea.
She heard the cry of the sea
And she thrust me from her side
And out to its cold embrace
She flew like a willing bride.
And I heard the laugh of the wave
Far off on the windy shore.
Oh! never a dream I caught
So fair in my net before.

Dora Sigerson Shorter: A Ballad of the Wailing Ghost

As I between the dusk and dark
Walked down by Hampton Towers,
I strayed upon the haunted path
In the forbidden hours.
I paced the long and lonesome way
In meditation deep,
And there I saw a little maid
Who bitterly did weep.
Quaint was her silken robe and flowed
In some disorder down,
And on her slender shoulders fell
Her locks of tangled brown.
‘Too late! Too late!’ she weeping cried,
Her voice was like the wind—
She passed and wrung her lily hands
And left me far behind.

A maid distraught indeed was she
Her anguish all confessed—
In the sharp sighing that flew forth
From out her heaving breast.
When she had gone an echo flew
Across the haunted bower;
‘Too late! Too late!’ the whisper came
From ev’ry sleeping flower.
I met a youth upon the path
And bade him tell to me
If he had seen the little maid
Who wept so dolefully.
Upon his cheek the ruddy rose
Swift faded into white,
‘God pity you, for you have seen
The wailing ghost this night.
‘Pray, pray,’ he cried, ‘and shrive your soul,
And so avert your fate,’
And as he flew me swift in fear
A whisper cried ‘Too late!’

An evil prayer rose to my lip
‘Lord! This my soul’s relief,
To hold her slender hands in mine,
And know her secret grief.’

William Allingham: The Elf Singing

An Elf sat on a twig,
He was not very big,
He sang a little song,
He did not think it wrong;
But he was on a Wizard’s ground,
Who hated all sweet sound.

Elf, Elf,
Take care of yourself.
He’s coming behind you,
To seize you and bind you
And stifle you song.
The Wizard! The Wizard!
He changes his shape
In crawling along–
An ugly old ape,
A poisonous lizard,
A spotted spider,
A wormy glider
The Wizard! The Wizard!
He’s up on the bough
He’ll bite through your gizzard,
He’s close to you now!

The Elf went on with his song,
It grew more clear and strong;
It lifted him into air,
He floated singing away,
With rainbows in his hair;

While the Wizard-Worm from his creep
Mad a sudden leap,
Fell down into a hole,
And, are his magic word he could say,
Was eaten up by a Mole.

Elinor Morton Wylie: Valentine

Too high, too high to pluck
My heart shall swing.
A fruit no bee shall suck,
No wasp shall sting.

If on some night of cold
It falls to ground
In apple-leaves of gold
I’ll wrap it round.

And I shall seal it up
With spice and salt,
In a carven silver cup,
In a deep vault.

Before my eyes are blind
And my lips mute,
I must eat core and rind
Of that same fruit.

Before my heart is dust
By the end of all,
Eat it I must, I must
Were it bitter gall.

But I shall keep it sweet
By some strange art;
Wild honey I shall eat
When I eat my heart.

O honey cool and chaste
As clover’s breath!
Sweet Heaven I shall taste
Before my death.

Elinor Morton Wylie: The Fairy Goldsmith

Here’s a wonderful thing,
A humming-bird’s wing
In hammered gold,
And store well chosen
Of snowflakes frozen
In crystal cold.

Black onyx cherries
And mistletoe berries
Of chrysoprase,
Jade buds, tight shut,
All carven and cut
In intricate ways.

Here, if you please
Are little gilt bees
In amber drops
Which look like honey,
Translucent and sunny,
From clover-tops.

Here’s an elfin girl
Of mother-of-pearl
And moonshine made,
With tortise-shell hair
Both dusky and fair
In its light and shade.

Here’s lacquer laid thin,
Like a scarlet skin
On an ivory fruit;
And a filigree frost
Of frail notes lost
From a fairy lute.

Here’s a turquoise chain
Of sun-shower rain
To wear if you wish;
And glittering green
With aquamarine,
A silvery fish.

Here are pearls all strung
On a thread among
Pretty pink shells;
And bubbles blown
From the opal stone
Which ring like bells.

Touch them and take them,
But do not break them!
Beneath your hand
They will wither like foam
If you carry them home
Out of fairy-lannd.

O, they never can last
Though you hide them fast
From moth and from rust;
In your monstrous day
They will crumble away
Into quicksilver dust.

Elinor Morton Wylie: Sea Lullaby

The old moon is tarnished
With smoke of the flood,
The dead leaves are varnished
With colour like blood.

A treacherous smiler
With teeth white as milk,
A savage beguiler
In sheathings of silk

The sea creeps to pillage,
She leaps on her prey;
A child of the village
Was murdered today.

She came up to meet him
In a smooth golden cloak,
She choked him and beat him
to death, for a joke.

Her bright locks were tangled,
She shouted for joy
With one hand she strangled
A strong little boy.

Now in silence she lingers
Beside him all night
To wash her long fingers
In silvery light.

Elinor Morton Wylie: Primavera in the North

She has danced for leagues and leagues,
Over thorns and thistles,
Prancing to a tune of Griegg’s
Performed on willow whistles.

Antelopes behold her, dazed,
Velvet-eyed, and furry;
Polar flowers, crackle-glazed,
Snap beneath her hurry.

In a wig of copper wire,
A gown of scalloped gauzes,
She capers like a flame of fire
Over Arctic mosses.

All her tears have turned to birds,
All her thoughts of dolour
Paint the snow with scarlet words
And traceries of colour.

Elinor Morton Wylie: Pretty Words/ Quarrel

Poets make pets of pretty, docile words:
I love smooth words, like gold-enamelled fish
Which circle slowly with a silken swish,
And tender ones, like downy-feathred birds:
Words shy and dappled, deep-eyed deer in herds,
Come to my hand, and playful if I wish,
Or purring softly at a silver dish,
Blue Persian kittens fed on cream and curds.

I love bright words, words up and singing early;
Words that are luminous in the dark, and sing;
Warm lazy words, white cattle under trees;
I love words opalescent, cool, and pearly,
Like midsummer moths, and honied words like bees,
Gilded and sticky, with a little sting.

Quarrel

Let us quarrel for these reasons:
You detest the salt which seasons
My speech . . . and all my lights go out
In the cold poison of your doubt.
I love Shelley . . . you love Keats
Something parts and something meets.
I love salads . . . you love chops;
Something goes and something stops.
Something hides its face and cries;
Something shivers; something dies.
I love blue ribbons brought from fairs;
You love sitting splitting hairs.
I love truth, and so do you . . .
Tell me, is it truly true?