Poets have talked too much about the sea.
Let who would speak of water tell of ways
A river follows, be concerned with haze
Of a dark lake where soon the dawn will be.
Let them, for beauty's aching sake, beware,
Who stand upon the sands in rich amaze,
Of shaping with the mouth a worded phrase,
Lest their thin breath should stain intrinsic air.

If they must cry the sea, the sea, what of
The silence that is beauty's very heart?
What magic will the word hold for tomorrow?
They will have sons who might have known the smart
Of sea song in their blood like joy, like sorrow,
And breathed the better for the secret love.