Classic Poem

Bitten to dust are the savage feathers of fire,
And the foam lies in rusted chains on the sand,
The black weeds of the sea and the conch's spire
Are brittle as bird-claws upon my hand.

My ear on the drum of the dune is hollow
Under the sabres of clanging grass—
Stark for the thunder of sails to follow,
And the throb of wings when the dark gulls pass.

Ah, but the land has silenced you,
Your blood thinning down in dew on an inland plain.
Ah, but the loud sea would have rended you
On coral stalks and the straight white horns of rain.

The sea would have pierced you with the salt of its pace,
Boomed down your sails and the ribs of your bark on stones,
Given me touch of you in the bitter foam on my face
And the sea-mist coiled like silk about your bones.