I
Day is all drenched with heavy rain of tears;
The silences of joy are lost in sound
Of sorrow; for I weep the wasted years--
Wasted as wine poured out upon the ground
From beakers brimming red for thirsty lips.
Hushed are the trumpets that will call no more;
Lonely and vast the spaces of the sea
Where oft my mariners have flashed the oar
And ploughed deep furrows with my scarlet ships--
Eager and ready for the fight, and free.