Classic Poem

Between the wind-swept grasses and the swell
Of the flecked and freshening sea I know a place
Scented with warm spray always. Here I trace
Into the soft sand words of an old farewell
When I am sad, or else I weave a spell
Of rapture from a cool Egyptian vase
Remembered in delight, and here the grace
Of quiet comes upon me like a bell
Heard beneath water faintly audible …
Here with the privilege of one dear face
To look upon, God grant that I may dwell
Through the white days of April and the days
That follow in a flower-tumult, space
And the spilled foam murmuring into a shell.