At Ventura, California

The moon rises and washes the brine with silver; The dunes like white elephants restfully asleep after the chase; And the fog comes to bring the moon its veil of shades. The waves stretch their phosphorescent arms To embrace the night, The wind like a wounded gull beats its wings Over the land, over the sea, into the fog-vested intangibility.

Like a thousand trumpets the breakers Proclaim the empiry of night, The rocky caverns send back echoes Like homage from vassals near and far; A faint cry seemeth to flash like lightning; Through the clouds of the roar of waves: It is not from the rocks, nor from the sea; Ah! it is the prayer of a mightier ocean--Humanity!

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The same air that you breathe Is the air that caresses my sky; The sunlight that lingers on your hair and lips Sets fire to the pathway of my life; And the call of nature's numberless birds But reflects in world's mirror the music of our heart's singing-- Melody made of sweet agonies, Exquisite joys poured from pitchers of pain, As this summer's heat From the ever-burning heart of heaven. Not heaven alone; The earth, the air, flowers, and leaves Filled with passion that knows no slaking, Yet tranquil like sleep's dream-billowed sea. More than dream-billowed sea this love that I bring, Its boistrous waves seek the firmament of your yielding; While your heart-beats' arrows seek to slay my heart a'beating, As I inhale the fragrance of your breath and hair; And pour the perfume of my soul On your sun-bathed feet.

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Why this return? Why this sunlight When all seemed without sun?

Whence this call? I cannot tell, Yet its mighty thralls.

Hold me, haunt me Hour after hour, With its name of thee.

All seems ended, The last light lost In the house of the dead.

Yet with time's tide Rises thy face, My heart, my soul, my bride.

Though poureth the rain, And sorrow clouds my sky, Yet not mine the pain.

What I hear I can not tell, And what I fear,

Will not endure: But thou returnest, O serene, O silent, O pure!

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By the verge of the woodland, Where purling brooks loosen their brown tresses, Where the music of the breeze Is played on viols of the vines and trees, Thy soft words I hear Like songs from enchantment's strings. Ah, vanishing moments of ecstacy! Far-fleeing only to be nearer to my soul, Rest, rest awhile on the hillside of my echoing! Pour on it the sweet rain of thy words' melody Till they mingle and drown my tears Into thy kisses' passion-swept sea.

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