Leaping in green and brown mountains at the ocean’s
Corrupt persuasion, this island takes my liberty.
Homing to steady beach and earth’s decision,
The ship asleep on doubled hawsers, free
Of the salt bondage, I am led
At last where once sea-beaten Melville stood-
White-Jacket’s topmast tumble in his head.
These hills are outlaw without birch or juniper
And coarse exotic voiceless birds hurl bright shapes
Through poinciana and transposed conifers.
Sober and faithful migrant, the white-throat drops
Belled notes unseen on a New England dingle’s slope
And summer’s hid apostle, the black-throated green
Warbler sighs from hot balsam through pale afternoons.
Mirage beyond the utmost miles, remembering
Directs a finger past the sandbags and regret
And half of me is traveler. Can all this sundering
Turn me to east and north again from hate
Or make me integrant, singular of heart,
When all the kind catalysis of home
Could not compound me from this doubled one?
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