Issue 16, Spring-Summer 1957
I’ve heard the sea upon the troubled rocks
Waste this past night, with dreams more troubled still,
And where the images that you and I
Would smooth a sullen morning by? The fly,
Some mottled bird, the new brood of the fox?
O nothing will be born again, until
The monkish body and the eye can see
Down to the darkened sea’s nobility
That now but seems a dancer on a bed
Glutting the clumsy, storm-delighted dead.