Where icy and bright dungeons lift Of swimmers their lost morning eyes,
And ocean rivers, churning, shift Green borders under stranger skies,
Steadily as a shell secretes Its beating leagues of monotone,
Or as many waters trough the sun's Red kelson past the cape's wet stone; 0 rivers mingling toward the sky And harbor of the phoenix' breast My eyes pressed black against the prow, -Thy derelict and blinded guest Waiting, afire, what name, unspoken I cannot claim: let thy waves rear More savage than the death of kings,
Some splintered garland for the seer.
Beyond siroccos harvesting The solstice thunders, crept away,
Like a cliff swinging or a sail Flung into April's inmost day- Creation's blithe and petalled word To the lounged goddess when she rose Conceding dialogue with eyes That smile unsearchable repose- Still fervid covenant,
Belle Isle, -Unfolded floating dais before Which rainbows twine continual hair Belle Isle, white echo of the oar!
The imaged Word, it is, that holds Hushed willows anchored in its glow.
It is the unbetrayable reply Whose accent no farewell can know.
