Classic Poem

By the trackless shore of the sea, where the alien shouting of breakers
Beats on a desolate land, and is lost in the swirl of the dunes,—
The unsatisfied souls of the sea-dead wander the flowerless acres,
Tracing in shadowless sand their mystic ineffable runes.
For the sea calls to go forth to the sea and the world's far ending,
And the gull's cry carries the sound of gongs from the temples of Ind,
And the phantoms of wanderers suffer from lust and desire unending,
Luring with scent of strange flowers caught in the hair of the wind,
O call of our Mother and Bride, fierce Earth that entices with danger,
Whose kiss is a Pain and a Torture, whose passion is ultimate Death!
I follow thee Eastward alone, with a love that is wilder and stranger
Than that of the dead who have mingled their breath with the flame of thy breath.
The wrath of the sea is thy robe, and thy breasts, are the measureless mountains,
And the fire of thy spirit burns hot in the sullen red heart of the East;
Thy whisper is fraught with the laughter of birds and the murmur of fountains,
And the vagabond sons of men throng glad to the joy of thy feast.