wits are mine, and I am most at home
Within the compass of both land and sea,
One golden standard swept against the foam,
While snowy terns wheel down to look at me,
And silver minnows watch me rise and fall,
And hear my seaborne heart within the crest
Of one clear wave, repeated over all
The wider world, forever chasing rest;
Until an eight-legged gaggle comes to grab
A gleaming feather in its tawny hand,
And shrieks to find the wing — and, like a crab,
Retreats from the dead seagull in the sand —
Oh, beast with shallow breath, don't run away;
Life conjures death, the rest is only play.
© 2008 by Ellin
Anderson. All rights reserved.
No part of this work may be copied or used in any way
without written permission from the author.