Читать книгу Collected Poems: Volume One - Alfred Noyes - Страница 38

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Come to me, you with the laughing face, in the night as I lie

Dreaming of days that are dead and of joys gone by;

Come to me, comrade, come through the slow-dropping rain,

Come from your grave in the darkness and let us be pirates again.

Let us be boys together to-night, and pretend as of old

We are pirates at rest in a cave among huge heaps of gold,

Red Spanish doubloons and great pieces of eight, and muskets and swords,

And a smoky red camp-fire to glint, you know how, on our ill-gotten hoards.

The old cave in the fir-wood that slopes down the hills to the sea

Still is haunted, perhaps, by young pirates as wicked as we:

Though the fir with the magpie's big mud-plastered nest used to hide it so well,

And the boys in the gang had to swear that they never would tell.

Ah, that tree; I have sat in its boughs and looked seaward for hours.

I remember the creak of its branches, the scent of the flowers

That climbed round the mouth of the cave. It is odd I recall

Those little things best, that I scarcely took heed of at all.

I remember how brightly the brass on the butt of my spy-glass gleamed

As I climbed through the purple heather and thyme to our eyrie and dreamed;

I remember the smooth glossy sun-burn that darkened our faces and hands

As we gazed at the merchantmen sailing away to those wonderful lands.

I remember the long, slow sigh of the sea as we raced in the sun,

To dry ourselves after our swimming; and how we would run

With a cry and a crash through the foam as it creamed on the shore,

Then back to bask in the warm dry gold of the sand once more.

Come to me, you with the laughing face, in the gloom as I lie

Dreaming of days that are dead and of joys gone by;

Let us be boys together to-night and pretend as of old

We are pirates at rest in a cave among great heaps of gold.

Come; you shall be chief. We'll not quarrel, the time flies so fast.

There are ships to be grappled, there's blood to be shed, ere our playtime be past.

No; perhaps we will quarrel, just once, or it scarcely will seem So like the old days that have flown from us both like a dream.

Still; you shall be chief in the end; and then we'll go home

To the hearth and the tea and the books that we loved: ah, but come,

Come to me, come through the night and the slow-dropping rain;

Come, old friend, come thro' the darkness and let us be playmates again.