THE INTERPRETER

LAST night I heard Masefield, Heard that voice cold as a moonlit tomb Reading old plays and masques And gipsy drama of old England. I saw strange eyes flickering—sad, Set in a face recording vigils, Moody, unfellowed prowlings Vague contemplations and wanderings. I saw his face, dream-magnetic, Pale, withheld, until he told Stories as odd as coins in a sailor’s chest; Then mischief, like leaves danced on his brow, And a smile like water shook on his face. I heard the grind of creaking anchor chains Felt ropes bruise, and felt the capstan pull, Saw driven slanting masts, and saw the hoops Slink as some halliard parted, and was caught. I heard dead seamen’s lips Recounting heaps of gold in sunken ships; I saw the dumb eyes of pathetic women, Horribly treated by wine-frenzied brutes. Then as the lonely, chanting, stifled voice Droned on, I saw heart-breaking Peace, Green happy hedges, dreaming crofts and farms, England—before the War! Last night I heard Masefield. He stood downcast on a little platform, While I careened, helm up, full canvassed Close-hauled on happy seas. He stood limply on a little platform World-blind before the rows of set, still, faces, Absorbed in his faith of one maternal word “Beauty.”