The Wave
You come with the light on your face
Of the turn of a river from trees to the open sun,
You are the wandering spirit of the most beloved place—
And yet you are a joy not there begun
Nor anywhere, but always about to be,
The invisible succeeding crest
That follows from the open sea
And shall be loveliest.
I have no language, hardly any word
To name you with, I have no flight of hands
To swim your surface closer than a bird:
For endless changing countermands
Your face and blinds me blacker than a crest of sun,
Of the turn of a river from trees to the open sun,
You are the wandering spirit of the most beloved place—
And yet you are a joy not there begun
Nor anywhere, but always about to be,
The invisible succeeding crest
That follows from the open sea
And shall be loveliest.
I have no language, hardly any word
To name you with, I have no flight of hands
To swim your surface closer than a bird:
For endless changing countermands
Your face and blinds me blacker than a crest of sun,
- Read more about The Wave
- Log in or register to post comments