frail shell of the earth this spring sky of robin's egg blue
winged messengers of future worlds these wind-whirled seeds
The S. S. Golden Age has slipped
her berth, upped anchor, sailed
just over the horizon: watch
the widening wake; see
the last faint puffs of smoke; gaze
from the pier bathed in a sunset glow
until night snuffs out everything
but that soft lapping, lapping,
of the all-devouring waves.
Can you say it hasn’t all been said before:
those rosebuds gathered,
cherry blossoms falling,
snows of yesteryear, ripe plums?
Helen Keller, blind and deaf and dumb,
holds her hand beneath the water,
and the water comes.