THE SAILOR

Her brother was a rat-faced Roman,

Lean, puckered, tight-skinned from the sea,

Commander in the Canace,

Able to drive a horse, or ship,

Or crew of men, without a whip

By will, as long as they could go.

His face would wrinkle, row on row,

From mouth to hair-roots when he laught

He looked ahead as though his craft

Were with him still, in dangerous channels.

He and Hugh Colway tossed their flannels

Into the pony-cart and mounted.

Six foiled attempts the watchers counted,

The horses being bickering things,

That so much scarlet made like kings,

Such sidling and such pawing and shifting.