By Robert Penn Warren
Past second cock-crow yacht masts in the harbor go slowly white.
No light in the east yet, but the stars show a certain fatigue.
They withdraw into a new distance, have discovered our unworthiness. It is long since
The owl, in the dark eucalyptus, dire and melodious, last called, and
Long since the moon sank and the English
Finished fornicating in their ketches. In the evening there was a strong swell.
Red died the sun, but a dark wind rose easterly, white sea nagged the black harbor headland.
When there is a strong swell, you may, if you surrender to it, experience
A sense, in the act, of mystic unity with that rhythm. Your peace is the sea's will.
But now no motion, the bay-face is glossy in darkness, like
An old window pane flat on black ground by the wall, near the ash heap. It neither
Receives nor gives light. Now is the hour when the sea
Sinks into meditation. It doubts its own mission. The drowned cat
That on the evening swell had kept nudging the piles of the pier and had seemed
To want to climb out and lick itself dry, now floats free. On that surface a slight convexity
only, it is like
An eyelid, in darkness, closed. You must learn to accept the kiss of fate, for
The masts go white slow, as light, like dew, from darkness
Condensed on them, on oiled wood, on metal. Dew whitens in darkness.
I lie in my bed and think how, in darkness, the masts go white.
The sound of the engine of the first fishing dory dies seaward. Soon
In the inland glen wakes the dawn-dove. We must try
To love so well the world that we may believe, in the end, in God.
