H. D.
Reading edition
SEA GODS
I
They say there is no hope— Sand—drift—rocks—rubble of the sea— The broken hulk of a ship, Hung with shreds of rope, Pallid under the cracked pitch.
They say there is no hope To conjure you— No whip of the tongue to anger you— No hate of words You must rise to refute.
They say you are twisted by the sea, You are cut apart By wave-break upon wave-break, That you are misshapen by the sharp rocks, Broken by the rasp and after-rasp.
That you are cut, torn, mangled, Torn by the stress and beat, No stronger than the strips of sand Along your ragged beach.
II
But we bring violets, Great masses—single, sweet, Wood-violets, stream-violets, Violets from a wet marsh.
Violets in clumps from hills, Tufts with earth at the roots, Violets tugged from rocks, Blue violets, moss, cliff, river-violets.
Yellow violets' gold, Burnt with a rare tint— Violets like red ash Among tufts of grass.
We bring deep-purple Bird-foot violets.
We bring the hyacinth-violet, Sweet, bare, chill to the touch— And violets whiter than the in-rush Of your own white surf.
III
For you will come, You will yet haunt men in ships, You will trail across the fringe of strait And circle the jagged rocks.
You will trail across the rocks And wash them with your salt, You will curl between sand-hills— You will thunder along the cliff— Break—retreat—get fresh strength— Gather and pour weight upon the beach.
You will draw back, And the ripple on the sand-shelf Will be witness of your track.
O privet-white, you will paint The lintel of wet sand with froth.
You will bring myrrh-bark And drift laurel-wood from hot coasts. When you hurl high—high— We will answer with a shout.
For you will come, You will come, You will answer our taut hearts, You will break the lie of men's thoughts, And cherish and shelter us.
THE SHRINE
(“She Watches Over the Sea”)
I
Are your rocks shelter for ships? Have you sent galleys from your beach— Are you graded—a safe crescent, Where the tide lifts them back to port? Are you full and sweet, Tempting the quiet To depart in their trading ships?
Nay, you are great, fierce, evil— You are the land-blight— You have tempted men, But they perished on your cliffs.
Your lights are but dank shoals, Slate and pebbles and wet shells And sea-weed fastened to the rocks.
It was evil—evil When they found you— When the quiet men looked at you. They sought a headland, Shaded with ledge of cliff From the wind-blast.
But you—you are unsheltered— Cut with the weight of wind. You shudder when it strikes, Then lift, swelled with the blast. You sink as the tide sinks. You shrill under the hail, and sound Thunder when thunder sounds.
You are useless. When the tides swirl, Your boulders cut and wreck The staggering ships.
II
You are useless, O grave, O beautiful. The landsmen tell it—I have heard You are useless.
And the wind sounds with this And the sea, Where rollers shot with blue Cut under deeper blue.
O but stay tender, enchanted, Where wave-lengths cut you Apart from all the rest. For we have found you. We watch the splendour of you. We thread throat on throat of freesia For your shelf.
You are not forgot, O plunder of lilies— Honey is not more sweet Than the salt stretch of your beach.
III
Stay—stay— But terror has caught us now. We passed the men in ships. We dared deeper than the fisher-folk, And you strike us with terror, O bright shaft.
Flame passes under us, And sparks that unknot the flesh, Sorrow, splitting bone from bone— Splendour athwart our eyes, And rifts in the splendour— Sparks and scattered light.
Many warned of this. Men said: There are wrecks on the fore-beach. Wind will beat your ship. There is no shelter in that headland. It is useless waste, that edge, That front of rock. Sea-gulls clang beyond the breakers— None venture to that spot.
IV
But hail— As the tide slackens, As the wind beats out, We hail this shore. We sing to you, Spirit between the headlands And the further rocks.
Though oak-beams split, Though boats and sea-men flounder, And the strait grind sand with sand And cut boulders to sand and drift—
Your eyes have pardoned our faults. Your hands have touched us. You have leaned forward a little And the waves can never thrust us back From the splendour of your ragged coast.
TEMPLE—THE CLIFF
I
Great, bright portal, Shelf of rock, Rocks fitted in long ledges, Rocks fitted to dark, to silver-granite, To lighter rock— Clean cut, white against white.
High—high—and no hill-goat Tramples—no mountain-sheep Has set foot on your fine grass. You lift, you are the world-edge, Pillar for the sky-arch.
The world heaved— We are next to the sky. Over us, sea-hawks shout, Gulls sweep past. The terrible breakers are silent From this place.
Below us, on the rock-edge, Where earth is caught in the fissures Of the jagged cliff, A small tree stiffens in the gale, It bends—but its white flowers Are fragrant at this height.
And under and under, The wind booms. It whistles, it thunders, It growls—it presses the grass Beneath its great feet.
II
I said: Forever and forever must I follow you Through the stones? I catch at you—you lurch. You are quicker than my hand-grasp.
I wondered at you. I shouted—dear—mysterious—beautiful— White myrtle-flesh.
I was splintered and torn. The hill-path mounted Swifter than my feet.
Could a dæmon avenge this hurt, I would cry to him—could a ghost, I would shout—O evil, Follow this god, Taunt him with his evil and his vice.
III
Shall I hurl myself from here, Shall I leap and be nearer you? Shall I drop, beloved, beloved, Ankle against ankle? Would you pity me, O white breast?
If I woke, would you pity me, Would our eyes meet?
Have you heard, Do you know how I climbed this rock? My breath caught, I lurched forward— I stumbled in the ground-myrtle.
Have you heard, O god seated on the cliff, How far toward the ledges of your house, How far I had to walk?
IV
Over me the wind swirls. I have stood on your portal And I know— You are further than this, Still further on another cliff.
MID-DAY
The light beats upon me. I am startled— A split leaf crackles on the paved floor— I am anguished—defeated.
A slight wind shakes the seed-pods. My thoughts are spent As the black seeds. My thoughts tear me. I dread their fever— I am scattered in its whirl. I am scattered like The hot shrivelled seeds.
The shrivelled seeds Are spilt on the path. The grass bends with dust. The grape slips Under its crackled leaf: Yet far beyond the spent seed-pods, And the blackened stalks of mint, The poplar is bright on the hill, The poplar spreads out, Deep-rooted among trees.
O poplar, you are great Among the hill-stones, While I perish on the path Among the crevices of the rocks.