ISSUE: Winter 1931
Between sea-lust and land-recoil it lies,
Half naked under seething southern sun;
Landward a tattered green sleeve, hardly won,
Seaward a wanton white flank’s bold surprise.
The island nor to land nor sea replies,
It keeps a timeless secret told to none,
A romance still expected, maybe done,
It deeply sleeps and dreams with fast-closed eyes.
All things are alien here,—the leaf and wave Are suffered quietly.
The white gulls pass,
The red-birds quickly fly to land again.
The wind alone is faithful, swift to save It from the tides and heap its silver mass-The wind alone against the mad sea-rain.
