Their thuds on the
floor, their sordid swarming, their inexplicable daring--all gave a kind
of minor current of _diablerie_ to the rush and hurry of the stormy
night; for they seemed to speak--and the creatures which on shore are
odious appeared to be quite in place in the soaring groaning vessel. Ah,
my brave forecastle lads, my merry tan-faced favourites, I shall no more
see your quaint squalor, I shall no more see your battle with wind and
savage waves and elemental turmoil! Some of you have passed to the
shadows before me; some of you have only the ooze for your graves; and
the others cannot ever hear my greeting again on the sweet mornings when
the waves are all gay with lily-hued blossoms of foam.
Pale beyond porch and portal,
Crowned with dark flowers she stands,
Who gathers all things mortal
With cold immortal hands.
Gathers! And Proserpina will strew the flowers of foam that I may never
see more--and then she will gather me.
All was good in the time of delight--all is good now that only a memory
clings lovingly to the heart. Take my counsel. Rejoice in your day, and
the night shall carry no dread for you.
_June, 1889._
_LOST DAYS._
I fully recognize the fact which the Frenchman flippantly stated--that
no human beings really believe that death is inevitable until the last
clasp of the stone-cold king numbs their pulses.
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