Illusion

I stood upon surf-booming cliffs And heard the tide-race roaring, roaring strong and deep and free; On tall wind wings the white clouds sudded by. Far to the eat the ocean met the sky And the booming cliffs re-echoed to the thunder of the sea. Green are the waves and fringed with white the crest: Strong colour contrasts, turquoise, sapphire, now. Tumbling the jade green billows from the west Roars the wild sea-wind. Keep your sea. I go. Stranger to me the fierce red-blooded zest, The wild beast urge, the primitive behest. Fierce primal impulses are thoughts I do not know. I've ever dwelt 'mid worlds of vaguer tone, All tints and colors merging soft and dim, No garish flare of reds at the desert's rim— The sea-winds murmur there a pleasing drone; The sea-fogs grace the ocean, friendly, grey. 'Mid soft-hued woodlands shy nymphs have their play. Ad so I'll none of all this garish joy, These blazing dawns that leap like maids o'er-bold; The flaming greens and reds and yellows cloy, Barbaric tints of crimson, blazing gold. The worlds I seek are like soft, golden chimes; Soft merging tints that match the breeze's croon And no false note plays in the world-scheme rhymes— I seek soft, vague plateaus of the moon.