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The clapping blackness of the wings of pointed cormorants,
  the great indolent planes
Of autumn pelicans nine or a dozen strung shorelong,
But chiefly the gulls, the cloud-calligraphers of windy
  spirals before a storm,
Cruise north and south over the sea-rocks and over
That bluish enormous opal; very lately these alone,
  these and the clouds
And westering lights of heaven, crossed it; but then
A hull with standing canvas crept about Point Lobos...
  now all day long the steamers
Smudge the opal's rim; often a seaplane troubles
The sea-wind with its throbbing heart. These will
  increase, the others diminish; and later
These will diminish; our Pacific have pastured
The Mediterranean torch and passed it west across the
  fountains of the morning;
And the following desolation that feeds on Crete
Feed here; the clapping blackness of the wings of pointed
  cormorants, the great sails
Of autumn pelicans, the gray sea-going gulls,
Alone will streak the enormous opal, the earth have peace
  like the broad water, our blood's
Unrest have doubled to Asia and be peopling
Europe again, or dropping colonies at the morning star:
  what moody traveller
Wanders back here, watches the sea-fowl circle
The old sea-granite and cemented granite with one regard,
  and greets my ghost,
One temper with the granite, bulking about here?


Submitted by Holt

Added: 1 Mar 2004 | Last Read: 19 Jul 2008 6:33 AM | Viewed: 1608 times

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