The Sea at Sunset

The sea at sunset can reflect,
And does, the thin flamingo cloud,
The pale-green rift beneath; the sky
Alone can say these things aloud;
The water ripples, and refracts
Celestial into water acts.
But this is lovely: you detect
The sky, from ocean’s brief defect.

I left the island, left the sea,
Heartbroken for the twentieth time,—
“Beauty does not belong to me,”
I said, yet as I said it, knew
That this had never yet been true.
The sea was grey, the sea was blue,
The sea was white and streaked with spume,
Crowded with waves, but still had room
For wreckage; and the sea was green
Bursting against a reef unseen
Until the heavy swell sucked back,
Leaving the reef exposed and black.

In Vermont—and the stars so clear,
Seen through the dustless atmosphere,
That stars ahead both blazed and glowed
Only a foot above the road.
And then remorselessly appeared,
To eyes grown tired of lovely sights,
The flushing, soaring Northern Lights—
And still the eyes and mind must take
More wonder, and remain awake.

And then, again, the gleaming chasm
Began to vibrate, and I knew,
In spite of all that I could do,
I must endure the awful spasm
Of perfectness accomplished, sure
And terrible—so drove my eyes
Into the Northern-lighted skies;
And suffered Beauty to extent
Extreme, and with no merriment.
I sent my mind ahead to climb
The Mohawk Trail: which can be bad
In fog, and fog is what we had
Always; I spread the motor-map,
And left it lying on my lap.