Читать книгу No One Can Stem the Tide - Jane Tyson Clement - Страница 18

13

AT THE SHORE

Out of the black pool of sleep

the broken images like scattered sunlight

merge into morning, and I wake.

Here where the sea beats unangered

the gray gulls waddle along in the gray misty morning

and rise on white wings over the white sea

transformed into grace in their own element.

Must we take lessons always from everything –

gulls fat and ridiculous dabbling their feet in the tide-pool,

gulls flying sublime with the sunlight silver upon them?

Better return to sleep and waken prosaic.

We were meant to both dabble and soar,

and even the loveliest wings get weary.