Birth of a Ship

The ship was safe and snug, on solid ground
With cosy chocks along the keel and bow.
A wrap of scaffolding and gantries ’round
And city power running up and down.

The engine block is in. She’s heavy now
Her gears and bearings tested, true, and round.
The paint on every inch of her is proud.
Pull out the chocks, and let the fog-horns sound!

It’s inches, but a mountain thunders free.
A blue mug on the slip-way — dust — debris!
The mass that moves, no human hand can stay.
The breakers waiting, break, and turn away
Under a keel sharp as Eternity
And might on might, the vessel meets the sea.

Of Fairyland

Here all is beautiful: the trees, the air,
The earth, and sky one shining style share.
No bush would dare bring forth a blemished rose,
And even mud and dirt are neat and fair.

Each one who lives within own beauty rare:
Each stance and motion is a perfect pose.
Though age is theirs, no marks of time they bear,
Nor bend they with the weight of mortal care.

In edifices brilliant and insane,
They feast; and councils hold; and feast again.
For all their perfect fare is empty light —
A pale token of the life they feign.

Taste not their wine and fruit, or else remain,
Forever severed from the true and plain.