High Surf

Loud as the Trump that made the mortised walls Of Jericho to tremble and lean and sway, The voice of ocean sweeps this granite verge. The cormorants today, Black-diving through the falling walls of serge, Float not too near the rocks; And smoky, white haired phantoms ride the long-spined rollers Curving across the bay From gulfs that round Cipango, arc Cathay. For me, Who stand enchanted and exalt, Seized up into a short eternity, No anger and no sorrow that men feign Informs the risen main: I here alone the impassable roar Of years and centuries and cycles rolling Under that solar and galactic vault, Over the cliffs and cities, over the mountains From shore to crumbing shore.