（For My Mother）

    The fragile splendour of the level sea, The moon's serene¹ and silver-veiled face, Make of this vessel² an enchanted³ place Full of white mirth and golden sorcery. Now, for a time, shall careless laughter be Blended with song, to lend song sweeter grace, And the old stars, in their unending race, Shall heed⁴ and envy young humanity.

    And yet to-night, a hundred leagues away, These waters blush a strange and awful red. Before the moon, a cloud obscenely grey Rises from decks that crash with flying lead. And these stars smile their immemorial way On waves that shroud⁵ a thousand newly dead！