The Helmsman

O be swift—

we have always known you wanted us.

We fled inland with our flocks,

we pastured them in hollows,

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cut off from the wind

and the salt track of the marsh.

We worshipped inland—

we stepped past wood-flowers,

we forgot your tang,

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we brushed wood-grass.

We wandered from pine-hills

through oak and scrub-oak tangles,

we broke hyssop and bramble,

we caught flower and new bramble-fruit

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in our hair: we laughed

as each branch whipped back,

we tore our feet in half buried rocks

and knotted roots and acorn-cups.

We forgot—we worshipped,

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we parted green from green,

we sought further thickets,

we dipped our ankles

through leaf-mould and earth,

and wood and wood-bank enchanted us—

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and the feel of the clefts in the bark,

and the slope between tree and tree—

and a slender path strung field to field

and wood to wood

and hill to hill

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and the forest after it.

We forgot—for a moment

tree-resin, tree-bark,

sweat of a torn branch

were sweet to the taste.

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We were enchanted with the fields,

the tufts of coarse grass

in the shorter grass—

we loved all this.

But now, our boat climbs—hesitates—drops—

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climbs—hesitates—crawls back—

climbs—hesitates—

O be swift—

we have always known you wanted us.

—
H. D.

Sea Garden, 1916