There lies a somnolent lake Under a noiseless sky, Where never the mornings break Nor the evenings die. Mad flakes of colour Whirl on its even face Iridescent and streaked with pallour; And, warding the silent place, The rocks rise sheer and gray From the sedgeless brink to the sky Dull-lit with the light of pale half-day Thro' a void space and dry. And the hours lag dead in the air With a sense of coming eternity: To the heart of the lonely boatman there: That boatman am I, I, in my lonely boat, A waif on the somnolent lake, Watching the colours creep and float With the sinuous track of a snake. Now I lean o'er the side And lazy shades in the water see, Lapped in the sweep of a sluggish tide Crawled in from the living sea; And next I fix mine eyes, So long that the heart declines, On the changeless face of the open skies Where no star shines; And now to the rocks I turn, To the rocks, around That lie like walls of a circling urn Wherein lie bound The waters that feel my powerless strength And meet my homeless oar Labouring over their ashen length Never to find a shore. But the gleam still skims At times on the somnolent lake, And a light there is that swims With the whirl of a snake; And tho' dead be the hour i' the air, And dayless the sky, The heart is alive of the boatman there: That boatman am I. |