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THE CLIFF TEMPLE

I

Great, bright portal,

shelf of rock,

rocks fitted in long ledges,

rocks fitted to dark, to silver granite,

to lighter rock—

clean cut, white against white.

High—high—and no hill-goat

tramples—no mountain-sheep

has set foot on your fine grass;

you lift, you are the world-edge,

pillar for the sky-arch.

The world heaved—

we are next to the sky:

over us, sea-hawks shout,

gulls sweep past—

the terrible breakers are silent

from this place.

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