Far out of sight forever stands the sea, 
Bounding the land with pale tranquillity. 
When a small child, I watched it from a hill 
At thirty miles or more. The vision still 
Lies in the eye, soft blue and far away: 
The rain has washed the dust from April day; 
Paint-brush and lupine lie against the ground; 
The wind above the hill-top has the sound 
Of distant water in unbroken sky; 
Dark and precise the little steamers ply- 
Firm in direction they seem not to stir. 
That is illusion. The artificer 
Of quiet, distance holds me in a vise 
And holds the ocean steady to my eyes. 


Once when I rounded Flattery, the sea 
Hove its loose weight like sand to tangle me 
Upon the washing deck, to crush the hull; 
Subsiding, dragged flesh at the bone. The skull 
Felt the retreating wash of dreaming hair. 
Half drenched in dissolution, I lay bare. 
I scarcely pulled myself erect; I came 
Back slowly, slowly knew myself the same. 
That was the ocean. From the ship we saw 
Gray whales for miles: the long sweep of the jaw, 
The blunt head plunging clean above the wave. 
And one rose in a tent of sea and gave 
A darkening shudder; water fell away; 
The whale stood shining, and then sank in spray. 


A landsman, I. The sea is but a sound. 
I would be near it on a sandy mound, 
And hear the steady rushing of the deep 
While I lay stinging in the sand with sleep. 
I have lived inland long. The land is numb. 
It stands beneath the feet, and one may come 
Walking securely, till the sea extends 
Its limber margin, and precision ends. 
By night a chaos of commingling power, 
The whole Pacific hovers hour by hour. 
The slow Pacific swell stirs on the sand, 
Sleeping to sink away, withdrawing land, 
Heaving and wrinkled in the moon, and blind; 
Or gathers seaward, ebbing out of mind.