Mermaid Poems

Mermaid Poems

To Rathlin's Isle I chanced to sail
When summer breezes softly blew,
And there I heard so sweet a tale,
That oft I wished it could be true
They said, at eve, when rude winds sleep,
And hushed is ev'ry tubid swell,
A mermaid rises from the deep,
And sweetly tunes her magic shell.

And while she plays, rock dell and cave
In dying falls the sound retain,
As if some choral spirits gave

Their aid to swell her witching strain.
Then summoned by that dulcet note,
Uprising to th'admiring view,
A fairy island seems to float
With tints of many a gorgeous hue.

And glitterinig fairies, and lofty towers,
All on this fairy isle are seen
And waving trees, and shady bowers,
With more than mortal verdure green.
And as it moves, the western sky
Glows with a thousand varying rays;
And the calm sea, tinged with each dye,
Seems like a golden flood of blaze

In olden days of tales of yore,
Upon the rocks and on distant shore,
Tales of you were common lore.

Mirage at the sea and upon the land?
The ocean is of water not sand,
Men spoke of thee with golden flowing hair,
Enchanged by the grace and beauty fair.

What if in a drunken stupor daze,
Adrift at sea and of mind in craze,
You were mistaken by men upon the sea
A mermaid, naught but a simple manatee'.

Where are you now? Oh enchantress,
With thy flowing golden tresses,
Tales that men possess; of thee a magic comb,
Where are you now on the seven seas we roam?

Virginia Torres

Leagues, leagues over the sea I sail
Couched on a wallowing dolphin's tail.

The sky is on fire, the waves a-sheen,
I dabble my foot in the billows green.

In a sea-weed hat on the rocks I sit,
where tern and sea-mew glide and beat,
And where dark shadows the cormorants meet.

In caverns cool when the tide's a wash,
I sound my conch to the watery splash.

From out their grottos at evenings beam,
The mermaids swim with locks agleam.

To where I watch on the yellow sands,
And they pluck sweet music with sea-cold hands.

They bring me coral and amber clear.
But when the stars in heaven appear, their music ceases, they glide away.
They swim for their grottos across the bay.

Then listen only to my shrill tune,
The surfy tide, and the wondering moon.

Walter de la Mare