Some Imagist Poets, 1916 Part 2

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.

THE SHRINE

("_She Watches Over the Sea_")

I

Are your rocks shelter for ships?

Have you sent galleys from your beach-- Are you graded--a safe crescent, Where the tide lifts them back to port?

Are you full and sweet, Tempting the quiet To depart in their trading ships?

Nay, you are great, fierce, evil-- You are the land-blight-- You have tempted men, But they perished on your cliffs.

Your lights are but dank shoals, Slate and pebbles and wet sh.e.l.ls And sea-weed fastened to the rocks.

It was evil--evil When they found you-- When the quiet men looked at you.

They sought a headland, Shaded with ledge of cliff From the wind-blast.

But you--you are unsheltered-- Cut with the weight of wind.

You shudder when it strikes, Then lift, swelled with the blast.

You sink as the tide sinks.

You shrill under the hail, and sound Thunder when thunder sounds.

You are useless.

When the tides swirl, Your boulders cut and wreck The staggering ships.

II

You are useless, O grave, O beautiful.

The landsmen tell it--I have heard You are useless.

And the wind sounds with this And the sea, Where rollers shot with blue Cut under deeper blue.

O but stay tender, enchanted, Where wave-lengths cut you Apart from all the rest.

For we have found you.

We watch the splendour of you.

We thread throat on throat of freesia For your shelf.

You are not forgot, O plunder of lilies-- Honey is not more sweet Than the salt stretch of your beach.

III

Stay--stay-- But terror has caught us now.

We pa.s.sed the men in ships.

We dared deeper than the fisher-folk, And you strike us with terror, O bright shaft.

Flame pa.s.ses under us, And sparks that unknot the flesh, Sorrow, splitting bone from bone-- Splendour athwart our eyes, And rifts in the splendour-- Sparks and scattered light.

Many warned of this.

Men said: There are wrecks on the fore-beach.

Wind will beat your ship.

There is no shelter in that headland.

It is useless waste, that edge, That front of rock.

Sea-gulls clang beyond the breakers-- None venture to that spot.

IV

But hail-- As the tide slackens, As the wind beats out, We hail this sh.o.r.e.

We sing to you, Spirit between the headlands And the further rocks.

Though oak-beams split, Though boats and sea-men flounder, And the strait grind sand with sand And cut boulders to sand and drift--

Your eyes have pardoned our faults.

Your hands have touched us.

You have leaned forward a little And the waves can never thrust us back From the splendour of your ragged coast.

TEMPLE--THE CLIFF

I