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 ship, 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 ships, 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