The Haunted Beach by Mary Robinson
Upon a lonely desert beach,
Where the white foam was scatter'd,
A little shed uprear'd its head,
Though lofty barks were shatter'd.
The sea-weeds gathering near the door,
A sombre path display'd;
And, all around, the deafening roar
Re-echoed on the chalky shore,
By the green billows made.
Above a jutting cliff was seen
Where sea-birds hover'd craving;
And all around the craggs were bound
With weeds–for ever waving.
And here and there, a cavern wide
lts shadowy jaws display'd;
And near the sands, at ebb of tide,
A shiver'd mast was seen to ride
Where the green billows stray'd.
And often, while the moaning wind
Stole o'er the summer ocean,
The moonlight scene was all serene,
The waters scarce in motion;
Then, while the smoothly slanting sand
The tall cliff wrapp'd in shade,
The fisherman beheld a band
Of spectres gliding hand in hand–
Where the green billows play'd.
And pale their faces were as snow,
And sullenly they wander'd;
And to the skies with hollow eyes
They look'd as though they ponder'd.
And sometimes, from their hammock shroud,
They dismal howlings made,
And while the blast blew strong and loud,
The clear moon mark'd the ghastly crowd,
Where the green billows play'd.
And then above the haunted hut
The curlews screaming hover'd;
And the low door, with furious roar,
The frothy breakers cover'd.
For in the fisherman's lone shed
A murder'd man was laid,
With ten wide gashes in his head,
And deep was made his sandy bed
Where the green billows play'd.
A shipwreck'd mariner was he,
Doom'd from his home to sever
Who swore to be through wind and sea
Firm and undaunted ever!
And when the wave resistless roll'd,
About his arm he made
A packet rich of Spanish gold,
And, like a British sailor bold,
Plung'd where the billows play'd.
The spectre band, his messmates brave,
Sunk in the yawning ocean,
While to the mast he lash'd him fast,
And braved the storm's commotion.
The winter moon upon the sand
A silvery carpet made,
And mark'd the sailor reach the land,
And mark'd his murderer wash his hand
Where the green billows play'd.
And since that hour the fisherman
Has toil'd and toil'd in vain;
For all the night the moony light
Gleams on the specter'd main!
And when the skies are veil'd in gloom,
The murderer's liquid way
Bounds o'er the deeply yawning tomb,
And flashing fires the sands illume,
Where the green billows play.
Full thirty years his task has been,
Day after day more weary;
For Heaven design'd his guilty mind
Should dwell on prospects dreary.
Bound by a strong and mystic chain,
He has not power to stray;
But destined misery to sustain,
He wastes, in solitude and pain,
A loathsome life away.
Rafiq's Experiment...I mean...
Sky's Forest
High up above our silent heads,
where the white puffs are spread,
the flap of wings and angel things
showed that the sky wasn't dead.
The wind played the featres, and softly too
perhaps in breaking they feared
but still the dance of innocence flew
round and up and down in two,
with the azure ceiling seer.
Above a grove of birds and trees
where life was awake forever,
and time would see no end to bees
and bears and stags to enter.
What things beyond nature would come to pass
yet near the green,
many bushes perhaps,
a thing unnatural, a silver mast,
by the azure ceiling seen.
And perhaps the natural thanked never to hear
at that small moment today
for the doves and deer who felt no fear,
would change to flight from play.
In motion and silence a creature fell,
staggering on the ground bleeding,
The Hunter stepped from where he'd crouched
and had a smile upon his mouth
with the azure ceiling seeing.
The creature moaned and moved and bled,
its wish to survive was true,
the hunder stabbed the creature dead,
a merciful death to few.
And then the light turned into dark
a sudden and startling thing,
The Hunter dragged his kill'ed mark
alone, afraid and surrounded by bark,
under the azure's watering rings.
The rain would come,
and the wind would blow,
the trees would mourn and hum,
as a rumble was heard below.
The darkness would flash
the hunter fearing,
the trees then trashed
and thunder crashed
with the azure ceiling leering.
The Hunter wailed and cried;
he felt that death approached,
he left his pride and fled in stride,
and ignored the prize he'd poached.
The rain fell hard and on,
the trees lost their thirst,
the sky finally ceased its tearful song,
before the coming of the dawn,
which the azure ceiling burst.
The silence was heard
with sigh and relief;
The Hunter like a bird passed through word
of his story as a thief.
"I fear the forest,"
he said with feeling
"whose creatures were loved best,
the one where life is protected at behest,
of the wide azure ceiling."
