Full text: The little review (12 (1926), 1)

Where icy and bright dungeons lift 
Of swimmers their lost morning eyes, 
And ocean rivers, churning, shift 
Green borders under stranger skies, 
Constantly as a shell secretes 
Its beating leagues of monotone, 
Or as many waters trough the sun’s 
Red kelson past the capes’ wet stone; 
O rivers mingling toward the sky 
And harbor of the phoenix’ breast— 
My eyes pressed black against the prow, 
—Thy derelict and blinded guest 
Waiting, afire, what name unspoke 
I cannot claim: let thy waves rear 
More savage than the death of kings, 
Some splintered garland for the seer. 
Beyond sirecces harvesting 
The solstice thunders crept away, 
Like a cliff swinging, or a sail 
Flung into April’s inmost day— 
Creation’s blithe and petalled word 
To the lounged goddess when she rose 
Conceding dialogue with eyes 
That smile unsearchable repose— 
Still fervid covenant, Belle Isle, 
—Unfolded floating dais before 
Which rainbows twine continual hair— 
Belle Isle, white echo of the ear! 
The imaged word, it is, that holds 
Hushed willows anchored in its glow. 
It is the unbetrayable reply 
Whose accent no farewell can know. 

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