The Cycle

The clapping blackness of the wings of pointed cormorants, the great indolent planes Of autumn pelicans nine or a dozen strung shorelong, But chiefly the gulls, the cloud-caligraphers of windy spirals before a storm, Cruise north and south over the sea-rocks and over That bluish enormous opal; very lately these alone, these and the clouds And westering lights of heaven, crossed it; but then A hull with standing canvas crept about Point Lobos . . . now all day long the steamers Smudge the opal's rim; often a seaplane troubles The sea-wind with its throbbing heart. These will increase, the others diminish; and later These will diminish; our Pacific has pastured The Mediterranean torch and passed it west across the fountains of the morning; And the following desolation that feeds on Crete Feed here; the clapping blackness of the wings of pointed cormorants, the great sails Of autumn pelicans, the gray sea-going gulls, Alone will streak the enormous opal, the earth have peace like the broad water, our blood's Unrest have doubled to Asia and be peopling Europe again, or dropping colonies at the morning star: what moody traveler Wanders back here, watches the sea-fowl circle The old sea-granite and cemented granite with one regard, and greets my ghost, One temper with the granite, bulking about here?