Sea Garden Part 4

II

I said: for ever and for ever, must I follow you through the stones?

I catch at you--you lurch: you are quicker than my hand-grasp.

I wondered at you.

I shouted--dear--mysterious--beautiful-- white myrtle-flesh.

I was splintered and torn: the hill-path mounted swifter than my feet.

Could a daemon avenge this hurt, I would cry to him--could a ghost, I would shout--O evil, follow this G.o.d, taunt him with his evil and his vice.

III

Shall I hurl myself from here, shall I leap and be nearer you?

Shall I drop, beloved, beloved, ankle against ankle?

Would you pity me, O white breast?

If I woke, would you pity me, would our eyes meet?

Have you heard, do you know how I climbed this rock?

My breath caught, I lurched forward-- stumbled in the ground-myrtle.

Have you heard, O G.o.d seated on the cliff, how far toward the ledges of your house, how far I had to walk?

IV

Over me the wind swirls.

I have stood on your portal and I know-- you are further than this, still further on another cliff.

ORCHARD

I saw the first pear as it fell-- the honey-seeking, golden-banded, the yellow swarm was not more fleet than I, (spare us from loveliness) and I fell prostrate crying: you have flayed us with your blossoms, spare us the beauty of fruit-trees.

The honey-seeking paused not, the air thundered their song, and I alone was prostrate.

O rough-hewn G.o.d of the orchard, I bring you an offering-- do you, alone unbeautiful, son of the G.o.d, spare us from loveliness:

these fallen hazel-nuts, stripped late of their green sheaths, grapes, red-purple, their berries dripping with wine, pomegranates already broken, and shrunken figs and quinces untouched, I bring you as offering.

SEA G.o.dS

I

They say there is no hope-- sand--drift--rocks--rubble of the sea-- the broken hulk of a s.h.i.+p, hung with shreds of rope, pallid under the cracked pitch.

They say there is no hope to conjure you-- no whip of the tongue to anger you-- no hate of words you must rise to refute.

They say you are twisted by the sea, you are cut apart by wave-break upon wave-break, that you are misshapen by the sharp rocks, broken by the rasp and after-rasp.

That you are cut, torn, mangled, torn by the stress and beat, no stronger than the strips of sand along your ragged beach.

II

But we bring violets, great ma.s.ses--single, sweet, wood-violets, stream-violets, violets from a wet marsh.

Violets in clumps from hills, tufts with earth at the roots, violets tugged from rocks, blue violets, moss, cliff, river-violets.

Yellow violets' gold, burnt with a rare tint-- violets like red ash among tufts of gra.s.s.

We bring deep-purple bird-foot violets.

We bring the hyacinth-violet, sweet, bare, chill to the touch-- and violets whiter than the in-rush of your own white surf.

III

For you will come, you will yet haunt men in s.h.i.+ps, you will trail across the fringe of strait and circle the jagged rocks.

You will trail across the rocks and wash them with your salt, you will curl between sand-hills-- you will thunder along the cliff-- break--retreat--get fresh strength-- gather and pour weight upon the beach.

You will draw back, and the ripple on the sand-shelf will be witness of your track.

O privet-white, you will paint the lintel of wet sand with froth.

You will bring myrrh-bark and drift laurel-wood from hot coasts!

when you hurl high--high-- we will answer with a shout.

For you will come, you will come, you will answer our taut hearts, you will break the lie of men's thoughts, and cherish and shelter us.

ACON

I