Surely we knew our darkling shore.
None doubted that continual roar
Of gray waves seething, cold and huge;
None misconceived that beach, those reeds
Wreathed in the dark, dead, dripping weeds.
No fiction there, no subterfuge.
Came she then, borne from such sea-bed?
We think so. Clouds in violent red
Shone on her warmly, flank and breast,
And some remember how the foam
Swirled at her ankles. Other some
Look shrewd and smile behind the rest.
She gave us beauty where our eyes
Had seen but need, and we grew wise.
For wisdom could not fail the gift
Bestowed in that superb undress,
Value consigned as loveliness
From ocean’s riches, ocean’s thrift.
But, Love, then must it be the sea
That makes you credible, must we
Bear all to one phenomenon?
Aye, certainty is our seacoast,
The landmark of the plainly lost
Whose gathering waves drive on and on.
Great queen, an ignorant poet’s heart
Is all his faith, and yet his art
Can prick your source to tell the truth.
So teach him, lady. Then always
Among the voices here that praise
Your powers, one will be Carruth.
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