Classic Poem

Up here, where the air's very clear
And the hills slope away nigh down to the bay,
It is very like Heaven . . .

For the sea's wine-purple and lies half asleep
In the sickle of the shore and, serene in the west,
Lion-like purple and brooding in the even,
Low hills lure the sun to rest.

Very like Heaven. . . . For the vast marsh dozes,
And waving plough-lands and willowy closes
Creep and creep up the soft south steep;
In the pallid North the grey and ghostly downs do fold away.
And, spinning spider-threadlets down the sea, the sea-lights dance
And shake out a wavering radiance.

Very like Heaven. . . . For a shimmering of pink.
East, far east, past the sea-lights' distant blink,
Like a cloud shell-pink, like the ear of a girl,
Like Venice-glass mirroring mother-o'-pearl,
Like the small pink nails of my lovely lady's fingers,
Where the skies drink the sea and the last light lies and lingers,
There is France.