And the long docks bit the black water
Like old loosened fangs that held the sea
In one last grinning jaw-clamp of despair.
I knew those docks
When at the hour of noon
A molten clangor shivered cheerful air
And thousand ship-bells rang--
And now--only a drifting buoy-bell rung
The knell of hope with its emphatic tongue,
Cut loose by the blockaders
To wander down the harbor in despair.
III
Close in the shadow of a warehouse lay
The blockade-runner with her smokestacks gray,
Back-raking like her masts, and up her hatches
Came voices, and the furnace-light in patches
Beat on the sails, and there alone was life--
The stevedores sang muffled snatches, and a strife
Of bales and barrels streamed down her yawning hold;
Cotton more valuable than money,
And barrels of the St. Louis sorghum and molasses,
Honey to lure the bees of English gold.
Three days she lay, this arrow-pointed boat,
With a light gold necklace, beaded at her throat,
Something there was about her like a stoat
That lies in wait to make a silent rush,
And there was something in her like a thrush,
For she had paddle-wheels, each like a wing.
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