Christina Rossetti — Sleep At Sea

Sound the deep waters:--         Who shall sound that deep?-- Too short the plummet,         And the watchmen sleep. Some dream of effort         Up a toilsome steep; Some dream of pasture grounds         For harmless sheep. White shapes flit to and fro         From mast to mast; They feel the distant tempest         That nears them fast: Great rocks are straight ahead,         Great shoals not past; They shout to one another         Upon the blast. O, soft the streams drop music         Between the hills, And musical the birds' nests         Beside those rills: The nests are types of home         Love-hidden from ills, The nests are types of spirits         Love-music fills. So dream the sleepers,         Each man in his place; The lightning shows the smile         Upon each face: The ship is driving, driving,         It drives apace: And sleepers smile, and spirits         Bewail their case. The lightning glares and reddens         Across the skies; It seems but sunset         To those sleeping eyes. When did the sun go down         On such a wise? From such a sunset         When shall day arise? "Wake," call the spirits:         But to heedless ears; They have forgotten sorrows         And hopes and fears; They have forgotten perils         And smiles and tears; Their dream has held them long,         Long years and years. "Wake," call the spirits again:         But it would take A louder summons         To bid them awake. Some dream of pleasure         For another's sake; Some dream, forgetful         Of a lifelong ache. One by one slowly,         Ah, how sad and slow! Wailing and praying         The spirits rise and go: Clear stainless spirits,         White,--as white as snow; Pale spirits, wailing         For an overthrow. One by one flitting,         Like a mournful bird Whose song is tired at last         For no mate heard. The loving voice is silent,         The useless word; One by one flitting,         Sick with hope deferred. Driving and driving,         The ship drives amain: While swift from mast to mast         Shapes flit again, Flit silent as the silence         Where men lie slain; Their shadow cast upon the sails         Is like a stain. No voice to call the sleepers,         No hand to raise: They sleep to death in dreaming         Of length of days. Vanity of vanities,         The Preacher says: Vanity is the end         Of all their ways.