C. Fox Smith, 'They made sails'. Long, so I split it in two. Part two is tagged: they made sails part two
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In the old raftered loft
Where the winds blow
Like thin querulous voices
Out of long ago,
And the cobwebs sway
To and fro, to and fro
Like the fine top hamper
Etching out the sky
Of a tall square-rigger
In a time gone by. . . .
.
In the old raftered loft
They made sails. . . .
Moonsails, skysails
(To deck a new-built clipper),
Stunsails, trysails
(To suit a racing skipper),
Mainsails, to'gans'ls,
Great sails and small,
In the old raftered loft
They made them all. . . .
.
Yonder where the sun strikes
On the rutted floor,
Old Sails used to sit
Forty years and more,
Like an old bald Buddha,
Squatting on his throne,
Where the girls come with garlands
And the yellow monks intone . . . .
There he'd sit and yarn
Hour by hour
About the Blackwall frigate
/Owen Glendower/,
Where he learned his trade
A dog watch ago,
Striding down the Tropic
With her tacks boarded
And a wake like snow. . . .
