I
Each day the tide withdraws; chills us; pastes
The sand with dead gulls, oranges, dead men
Uttering love, that outlasts or outwastes
Time’s attrition, exiles appear again,
But faintly altered in eyes and skin. . . .
II
Into what understanding all have grown!
(Setting aside a few things, the still faces,
Climbing the phosphorus tide, that none will own)
What paradises and watering-places!
What hurts appeased by the sea’s handsomeness!
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