Ay, he must keep his mind clear — must not think
Of those two lying dead, or he'd go mad.
The glitter on the lenses made him blink:
The brass glared speckless: work was all he had
To keep his mind clear. He must keep it clear
And free of fancies, now that there was none,
None left but him to light the lantern — near
On fourteen hours yet till that blazing sun
Should drop into that quiet oily sea,
And he must light ... though it was not his turn:
'Twas Jacob's — Jacob, lying quietly
Upon his bed. ... And yet the light would burn
And flash across the darkness just as though
Nothing had happened, white and innocent
As if Jake's hand had lit it. None would know,
No seaman steering by it, what it meant
To him since he'd seen Jacob. ...
But that way
Lay madness. He at least must keep his wits,
Or there'd be none to tell why they two lay ...
He must keep working or he'd go to bits.
Ere sunset he must wind the lantern up.
He'd like to wind it now — but 'twould go round,
And he'd be fancying ... Neither bite nor sup
He'd touched this morning, and the clicking sound
Would send his light head fancying ... Jacob wound
So madly that last time before ... But he,
He mustn't think of Jacob. He was bound,
In duty bound to keep his own wits free
And clear of fancies.
He would think of home:
That thought would keep him whole when all else failed —
The green door and the doorstep white as foam;
The window that blazed bright the night he sailed
Out of the moonlit harbour — clean and gay
'Twould shine this morning in the sun with white
Dimity curtains and a grand display
Of red geraniums glowing in the light.
He always liked geraniums — such a red;
It put a heart in you. His mother too,
She liked ...
And she'd be lying still in bed,
And never dreaming! If she only knew!
But he ... he mustn't think of them just now —
Must keep off fancies ...
She'd be lying there
Sleeping so quietly — her smooth white brow
So calm beneath the wisps of silver hair
Slipped out beneath her mutch-frills. She had pride
In those fine caps, and ironed them herself.
The very morning that his father'd died,
Drowned in the harbour, turning to the shelf,
She took her iron down without a word
And ironed with her husband lying dead ...
As they were lying now. ... He never heard
Her speak or saw her look towards the bed.
She ironed, ironed. He had thought it queer —
The little shivering lad perched in his chair,
And hungry — though he dared not speak for fear
His father'd wake, and with wet streaming hair
Should rise up from the bed. . . .
He'd thought it strange
Then, but he understood now, understood.
You'd got to work, or let your fancies range;
And fancies played the devil when they could;
They got the upper hand if you loosed grip
A moment. Iron frills or polish brass
To keep a hold upon yourself, not slip
As Jacob slipped ...
A very burning-glass
The lenses were. He'd have to drop off soon
And find another job to fill the morn,
And keep him going till the afternoon —
And it was not yet five! ...
Ay, he was born
In the very bed where still his mother slept,
And where his father'd lain — a cupboard-bed
Let in the wall, more like a bunk, and kept
Decent with curtains drawn from foot to head
By day, though why — but 'twas the women's way;
They always liked things tidy. They were right —
Better to keep things tidy through the day
Or there would be the devil's mess by night.
He liked things shipshape too, himself: he took
After his mother in more ways than one.
He'd say this for her — she could never brook
A sloven; and she'd made a tidy son.
'Twas well for him that he was tidy now
That he was left, or how'd he ever keep
His thoughts in hand ... The Lord alone knew how
He'd keep them tidy till ...
Yet she could sleep:
And he was glad, ay, glad that she slept sound:
It did him good to think of her so still:
It kept his thoughts from going round and round
Like Jacob in the lighted lantern, till ...
God! they were breaking loose — he must keep hold ...
On one side, Albert Edward, Prince of Wales ,
Framed in cut cork, painted to look like gold —
On the other a red frigate, with white sails
Bellying and a blue pennon fluttering free,
Upon a sea dead-calm. He couldn't think
As a wee lad how ever this could be:
And when he'd asked, his father with a wink
Had only answered laughing: Little chaps
Might think they knew a lot and had sharp eyes:
But only pigs could see the wind. Perhaps
The painter'd no pig by him to advise.
That was his father's way — he'd always jest
And chuckle in his beard with eyes half-shut.
And twinkling ... Strange to think of them at rest
And lightless, those blue eyes beneath that cut
Where the jagged rock had gashed his brow — the day
His wife kept ironing those snowy frills
To keep herself from thinking how he lay
And wouldn't jest again. It's that that kills —
The thinking over ...
Jacob jested too:
He'd always some new game, was full of chaff.
The very morn before the lantern drew —
Yesterday morn that was, he heard him laugh ...
Yesterday morn! And was it just last night
He'd wakened, startled, and run out, to find
Jacob within the lantern, round the light
Fluttering like a moth, naked and blind
And laughing ... Peter staring, turned to stone ...
The struggle ... Peter killed ...
And he must keep
His mind clear at all costs, himself, alone
On that grey naked rock of the great deep,
Full forty miles from shore — where there were men
Alive and breathing at this moment, ay
Men deep in easy slumber even then,
Who yet would waken and look on the sky.
He must keep his mind clear to light the lamp
Ere sunset, ay, and clear the long night through
To tell how they had died. He mustn't scamp
The truth — and yet 'twas little that he knew ...
What had come over Jacob in the night
To send him mad and stripping himself bare ...
And how he'd ever climbed into the light —
And it revolving ... and the heat and glare!
No wonder he'd gone blind — the lenses burning
And blazing round him; and in each he'd see
A little naked self ... and turning, turning,
Till, blinded, scorched, and laughing crazily,
He'd dropped; and Peter ... Peter might have known
The truth if he had lived to tell the tale —
But Peter'd tripped ... and he was left alone ...
Just thirty hours till he should see a sail
Bringing them food and letters — food for them,
Letters from home for them ... and here was he
Shuddering like a boat from stern to stem
When a wave takes it broadside suddenly.
He must keep his mind clear ...
His mother lay
Peacefully slumbering. And she, poor soul,
Had kept her mind clear, ironing that day —
Had kept her wits about her sound and whole,
And for his sake. Ay, where would he have been
If she had let her fancies have their way
That morning, having seen what she had seen!
He'd thought it queer ... But it was no child's play
Keeping the upper hand of your own wits.
He knew that now. If only for her sake,
He mustn't let his fancies champ their bits
Until they foamed — he must jam on the brake
Or he ...
He must think how his mother slept;
How soon she would be getting out of bed;
Would dress, and breakfast by the window, kept
So lively with geraniums blazing red;
Would open the green door and wash the stone,
Foam-white enough already; then maybe
She'd take her iron down and, all alone,
Would iron, iron, iron steadily —
Keeping her fancies quiet till he came ...
To-morrow he'd be home: he'd see the white
Welcoming threshold and the window's flame,
And her grave eyes kindling with kindly light.
Of those two lying dead, or he'd go mad.
The glitter on the lenses made him blink:
The brass glared speckless: work was all he had
To keep his mind clear. He must keep it clear
And free of fancies, now that there was none,
None left but him to light the lantern — near
On fourteen hours yet till that blazing sun
Should drop into that quiet oily sea,
And he must light ... though it was not his turn:
'Twas Jacob's — Jacob, lying quietly
Upon his bed. ... And yet the light would burn
And flash across the darkness just as though
Nothing had happened, white and innocent
As if Jake's hand had lit it. None would know,
No seaman steering by it, what it meant
To him since he'd seen Jacob. ...
But that way
Lay madness. He at least must keep his wits,
Or there'd be none to tell why they two lay ...
He must keep working or he'd go to bits.
Ere sunset he must wind the lantern up.
He'd like to wind it now — but 'twould go round,
And he'd be fancying ... Neither bite nor sup
He'd touched this morning, and the clicking sound
Would send his light head fancying ... Jacob wound
So madly that last time before ... But he,
He mustn't think of Jacob. He was bound,
In duty bound to keep his own wits free
And clear of fancies.
He would think of home:
That thought would keep him whole when all else failed —
The green door and the doorstep white as foam;
The window that blazed bright the night he sailed
Out of the moonlit harbour — clean and gay
'Twould shine this morning in the sun with white
Dimity curtains and a grand display
Of red geraniums glowing in the light.
He always liked geraniums — such a red;
It put a heart in you. His mother too,
She liked ...
And she'd be lying still in bed,
And never dreaming! If she only knew!
But he ... he mustn't think of them just now —
Must keep off fancies ...
She'd be lying there
Sleeping so quietly — her smooth white brow
So calm beneath the wisps of silver hair
Slipped out beneath her mutch-frills. She had pride
In those fine caps, and ironed them herself.
The very morning that his father'd died,
Drowned in the harbour, turning to the shelf,
She took her iron down without a word
And ironed with her husband lying dead ...
As they were lying now. ... He never heard
Her speak or saw her look towards the bed.
She ironed, ironed. He had thought it queer —
The little shivering lad perched in his chair,
And hungry — though he dared not speak for fear
His father'd wake, and with wet streaming hair
Should rise up from the bed. . . .
He'd thought it strange
Then, but he understood now, understood.
You'd got to work, or let your fancies range;
And fancies played the devil when they could;
They got the upper hand if you loosed grip
A moment. Iron frills or polish brass
To keep a hold upon yourself, not slip
As Jacob slipped ...
A very burning-glass
The lenses were. He'd have to drop off soon
And find another job to fill the morn,
And keep him going till the afternoon —
And it was not yet five! ...
Ay, he was born
In the very bed where still his mother slept,
And where his father'd lain — a cupboard-bed
Let in the wall, more like a bunk, and kept
Decent with curtains drawn from foot to head
By day, though why — but 'twas the women's way;
They always liked things tidy. They were right —
Better to keep things tidy through the day
Or there would be the devil's mess by night.
He liked things shipshape too, himself: he took
After his mother in more ways than one.
He'd say this for her — she could never brook
A sloven; and she'd made a tidy son.
'Twas well for him that he was tidy now
That he was left, or how'd he ever keep
His thoughts in hand ... The Lord alone knew how
He'd keep them tidy till ...
Yet she could sleep:
And he was glad, ay, glad that she slept sound:
It did him good to think of her so still:
It kept his thoughts from going round and round
Like Jacob in the lighted lantern, till ...
God! they were breaking loose — he must keep hold ...
On one side, Albert Edward, Prince of Wales ,
Framed in cut cork, painted to look like gold —
On the other a red frigate, with white sails
Bellying and a blue pennon fluttering free,
Upon a sea dead-calm. He couldn't think
As a wee lad how ever this could be:
And when he'd asked, his father with a wink
Had only answered laughing: Little chaps
Might think they knew a lot and had sharp eyes:
But only pigs could see the wind. Perhaps
The painter'd no pig by him to advise.
That was his father's way — he'd always jest
And chuckle in his beard with eyes half-shut.
And twinkling ... Strange to think of them at rest
And lightless, those blue eyes beneath that cut
Where the jagged rock had gashed his brow — the day
His wife kept ironing those snowy frills
To keep herself from thinking how he lay
And wouldn't jest again. It's that that kills —
The thinking over ...
Jacob jested too:
He'd always some new game, was full of chaff.
The very morn before the lantern drew —
Yesterday morn that was, he heard him laugh ...
Yesterday morn! And was it just last night
He'd wakened, startled, and run out, to find
Jacob within the lantern, round the light
Fluttering like a moth, naked and blind
And laughing ... Peter staring, turned to stone ...
The struggle ... Peter killed ...
And he must keep
His mind clear at all costs, himself, alone
On that grey naked rock of the great deep,
Full forty miles from shore — where there were men
Alive and breathing at this moment, ay
Men deep in easy slumber even then,
Who yet would waken and look on the sky.
He must keep his mind clear to light the lamp
Ere sunset, ay, and clear the long night through
To tell how they had died. He mustn't scamp
The truth — and yet 'twas little that he knew ...
What had come over Jacob in the night
To send him mad and stripping himself bare ...
And how he'd ever climbed into the light —
And it revolving ... and the heat and glare!
No wonder he'd gone blind — the lenses burning
And blazing round him; and in each he'd see
A little naked self ... and turning, turning,
Till, blinded, scorched, and laughing crazily,
He'd dropped; and Peter ... Peter might have known
The truth if he had lived to tell the tale —
But Peter'd tripped ... and he was left alone ...
Just thirty hours till he should see a sail
Bringing them food and letters — food for them,
Letters from home for them ... and here was he
Shuddering like a boat from stern to stem
When a wave takes it broadside suddenly.
He must keep his mind clear ...
His mother lay
Peacefully slumbering. And she, poor soul,
Had kept her mind clear, ironing that day —
Had kept her wits about her sound and whole,
And for his sake. Ay, where would he have been
If she had let her fancies have their way
That morning, having seen what she had seen!
He'd thought it queer ... But it was no child's play
Keeping the upper hand of your own wits.
He knew that now. If only for her sake,
He mustn't let his fancies champ their bits
Until they foamed — he must jam on the brake
Or he ...
He must think how his mother slept;
How soon she would be getting out of bed;
Would dress, and breakfast by the window, kept
So lively with geraniums blazing red;
Would open the green door and wash the stone,
Foam-white enough already; then maybe
She'd take her iron down and, all alone,
Would iron, iron, iron steadily —
Keeping her fancies quiet till he came ...
To-morrow he'd be home: he'd see the white
Welcoming threshold and the window's flame,
And her grave eyes kindling with kindly light.