The low sandy beach and the thin scrub pine,
The wide reach of bay and the long sky line,—
O, I am sick for home!
The salt, salt smell of the thick sea air,
And the smooth round stones that the ebbtides wear,—
When will the good ship come?
The wretched stumps all charred and burned,
And the deep soft rut where the cartwheel turned,—
Why is the world so old?
The lapping wave, and the broad gray sky
Where the cawing crows and the slow gulls fly,
Where are the dead untold?
The thin, slant willows by the flooded bog,
The huge stranded hulk and the floating log,
Sorrow with life began!
And among the dark pines, and along the flat shore,
O the wind, and the wind, for evermore!
What will become of man?
“Every person takes the limits of their own field of vision for the limits of the world.”
A pretty familiar re-post.
‘The eye sees what it brings the power to see’
– Thomas Carlyle
Antonio Machado, sent in by a reader, years ago now.
El ojo que ves no es
ojo porque tú lo veas;
es ojo porque te ve.
The eye you see is not
An eye because you see it
It’s an eye because it sees you.
Robert Creeley and something a little more modern:
Position is where you
put it, where it is,
did you, for example, that
large tank there, silvered,
with the white church along-
all that, to what
heavy the slow
world is with
in place. Some
man walks by, a
car beside him on
road, a leaf of
yellow color is
all drops into
face is heavy
with the sight. I can
feel my eye breaking.