He was shoveling sand
at the edge of the water, his heavy black glasses
glittered with rain:
“Don’t you see how much like a woman I am?”
His throat was wrapped in water,
and the water flowered with milt.
Shoveler, are you eating the earth?
Earth eating you?
what I have to have
to live in this country.
And he, as calm as calm, though he was dead:
“Oh,—milt,—and we’re all of us milt.”
The Ocean has its silent caves,
Deep, quiet, and alone;
Though there be fury on the waves,
Beneath them there is none.
The awful spirits of the deep
Hold their communion there;
And there are those for whom we weep,
The young, the bright, the fair.
Calmly the wearied seamen rest
Beneath their own blue sea.
The ocean solitudes are blest,
For there is purity.
The earth has guilt, the earth has care,
Unquiet are its graves;
But peaceful sleep is ever there,
Beneath the dark blue waves.