SOUTH STREET - by Francis E. Falkenbury

SOUTH STREET by  Francis E. Falkenbury As I came down to the long street by the water, the sea-ships drooped their masts like ladies bowing, Curtseying friendly in a manner olden, Shrouds and sails in silken sunlight flowing, Gleaming and shimmering from silvern into golden, With the sea-winds through the sunlit spaces blowing. As I came down to South Street by the glimmering, tossing water, the sweet wind blew, oh, softly, sweetly blew O’er the lean, black docks piled high with curious bales, Odorous casks, and bundles, of foreign goods, And all the long ships with their fair, tall sails, Lading the winey air with the spices of alien woods. As I came down by the winding streets to the wondrous green sea-water, the sounds along the water-front were tuned to fine accord; I heard the racket of the halliards slapping, Along the bare poles stabbing up aloft; I saw loose men, their garments ever flapping, Lounging a-row along each ruined wooden stair: Their untamed faces in the golden sun were soft, But their hard, bright eyes were wild, and in the sun’s soft flare Nothing they saw but sounding seas and the crash of ravening wind; Nothing but furious struggle with toil that never would end. The call of mine ancient sea was clamoring through their blood; Ah, they all felt that call, but nothing they understood, As I came down by the winding streets to South Street by the water. As I came down to South Street by the soft sea-water, I saw long ships, their mast-heads ever bowing: Sweet slender maids in clinging gowns of golden, Curtseying stately in a fashion olden, Bowing sweetly—each a king’s fair daughter— To me, their millionth, millionth lover, I, the seventh son of the old sea-rover, As I came down to South Street by the myriad moving water. - 1908 -