Here you will find the Poem November Surf of poet Robinson Jeffers
Some lucky day each November great waves awake and are drawn Like smoking mountains bright from the west And come and cover the cliff with white violent cleanness: then suddenly The old granite forgets half a year's filth: The orange-peel, eggshells, papers, pieces of clothing, the clots Of dung in corners of the rock, and used Sheaths that make light love safe in the evenings: all the droppings of the summer Idlers washed off in a winter ecstasy: I think this cumbered continent envies its cliff then. . . . But all seasons The earth, in her childlike prophetic sleep, Keeps dreaming of the bath of a storm that prepares up the long coast Of the future to scour more than her sea-lines: The cities gone down, the people fewer and the hawks more numerous, The rivers mouth to source pure; when the two-footed Mammal, being someways one of the nobler animals, regains The dignity of room, the value of rareness.
