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TO NORA MAY FRENCH
Importunate, the lion-throated sea,Blind with the mounting foam of winter, mournsTo cliffs where cling the wrenched and laboured roots.Of cypresses, and blossoms granite-grownLose in the gale their tattered petals, castOn bleak, tumultuous cauldrons of the tide,Where fell thy molten ashes.****Past the bay,The morning dunes a dust of marble seem—Wrought from primeval fanes to Beauty reared,And shattered by some vandal Titan's mace.To more than Time's own ruin. Woods of pine,Above the dunes in Gothic gloom recede,And climb the ridge that arches to the northLong as a lolling dragon's chine. The gulls,Like ashen leaves far-off upon the wind,Flutter above the broad and smouldering sea,That lightens with the fire-white foam: But thou,Of whom the sea is urn and sepulcher,Who hast thereof a blown, tumultuous sleep,And stormy peace in gulfs impacable—What carest thou if Beauty loiter there,Clad with the crystal noon? What carest thouIf sharp and sudden balsams of the pineMingle for her in the air's bright thuribleWith keener fragrance proffered by the deepFrom riven gulfs resounding?***Knowest thouWhat solemn shores of crocus-colored light,Reared by the sunset in its realm of change,Will mock the dream-lost isles that sirens ward,And charm the icy emerald of the seasTo unabiding iris? Knowest thouThe waxing of the wan December foam—A thunder-cloven veil that climbs and fallsUpon the cliffs forever?
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