On the Wharves

The sun beats clown with steady noonday glare,
The melting pitch entraps your halting feet,
The sea lies glassy in the broiling heat,
And tarry smells rise in the quivering air;
And at the wharfside lie proud ships and fair,
With tall masts tapering, spidery rigging neat,
While in the shade old sailors have their seat
And loaf and yarn and smoke and spit and swear.

Perhaps in far-off days—long, long ago
The sun shone on some old romantic port
Whence sailed strange ships on many an unknown quest,
Be-cutlassed buccaneers, intent to go
Gainst, laden galleons, their bloody sport,
And hardy Drakes, into the golden West.

J.B.