The Paltry Nude Starts on a Spring Voyage

But not on a shell, she starts, Archaic, for the sea. But on the first-found weed She scuds the glitters, Noiselessly, like one more wave. She too is discontent And would have purple stuff upon her arms, Tired of the salty harbors, Eager for the brine and bellowing Of the high interiors of the sea. The wind speeds her on, Blowing upon her hands And watery back. She touches the clouds, where she goes, In the circle of her traverse of the sea. Yet this is meagre play In the scrurry and water-shine, As her heels foam— Not as when the goldener nude Of a later day Will go, like the centre of sea-green pomp, In an intenser calm, Scullion of fate, Across the spick torrent, ceaselessly, Upon her irretrievable way.