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Bixbys Landing

They burned lime on the hill and dropped it down     here in an iron

On a long cable; here the ships warped

And took their loads from the engine, the water     is deep to the cliff.

The

Hangs half way over in the gape of the gorge,

Stationed like a north star above the peaks of     the redwoods, iron

For the little red hawks when they cease from

When they've struck prey; the spider's fling of a     cable rust-glued to the pulleys.

The laborers are gone, but what a good

Is here in return: the rich-lichened rock, the     rose-tipped stone-crop, the

Ocean's voices, the cloud-lighted space.

The kilns are cold on the hill but here in the     rust of the broken

Quick lizards lighten, and a rattle-snake

Down the cracked masonry, over the crumbled     fire-brick.

In the rotting

And roofless platforms all the free

Of windy grasses have root and make seed; wild     buckwheat blooms in the

Weather-slacked lime from the bursted barrels.

Two duckhawks darting in the sky of their cliff-hung     nest are the voice of the headland.

Wine-hearted solitude, our mother the wilderness,

Men's failures are often as beautiful as men's     triumphs, but your

Are even more precious than your first presence.

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Robinson Jeffers

John Robinson Jeffers (January 10, 1887 – January 20, 1962) was an American poet, known for his work about the central California coast. Much of…

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