I

Great, bright portal, Shelf of rock, Rocks fitted in long ledges, Rocks fitted to dark, to silver-granite, To lighter rock-- Clean cut, white against white.

High--high--and no hill-goat Tramples--no mountain-sheep Has set foot on your fine grass. You lift, you are the world-edge, Pillar for the sky-arch.

The world heaved-- We are next to the sky. Over us, sea-hawks shout, Gulls sweep past. The terrible breakers are silent From this place.

Below us, on the rock-edge, Where earth is caught in the fissures Of the jagged cliff, A small tree stiffens in the gale, It bends--but its white flowers Are fragrant at this height.

And under and under, The wind booms. It whistles, it thunders, It growls--it presses the grass Beneath its great feet.