This is
the ship of pearl, which, poets feign,
Sails the
unshadowed main,—
The
venturous bark that flings
On the
sweet summer wind its purpled wings
In gulfs
enchanted, where the Siren sings,
And coral
reefs lie bare,
Where the
cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming hair.
Its webs
of living gauze no more unfurl;
Wrecked is
the ship of pearl!
And every
chambered cell,
Where its
dim dreaming life was wont to dwell,
As the
frail tenant shaped his growing shell,
Before
thee lies revealed,—
Its irised
ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed!
Year after
year beheld the silent toil
That
spread his lustrous coil;
Still, as
the spiral grew,
He left
the past year’s dwelling for the new,
Stole with
soft step its shining archway through,
Built up
its idle door,
Stretched
in his last-found home, and knew the old no more.
Thanks for
the heavenly message brought by thee,
Child of
the wandering sea,
Cast from
her lap, forlorn!
From thy dead
lips a clearer note is born
Than ever
Triton blew from wreathed horn!
While on
mine ear it rings,
Through
the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings:—
Build thee
more stately mansions, O my soul,
As the
swift seasons roll!
Leave thy
low-vaulted past!
Let each
new temple, nobler than the last,
Shut thee
from heaven with a dome more vast,
Till thou
at length art free,
Leaving
thine outgrown shell by life’s unresting sea!
By Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr.
By Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr.
