On the Cliff

Horizon here is restless, humps itself,

As though far hills were marching on the sky,

While through the beachgrass, without feet the wind,

A fluent silence, ripples silverly.

With such proud patience ocean shifts his scales

It seems he soon should shed his royal skin

To lie, as new as morning, on the shore

Before the ardors of his noon begin.

Even the air is live with scents that tumble

Upon each other, come and go. Alone

The mind is motionless, to wear at last

The hour's meaning like a sea-shaped stone.