Where icy and bright dungeons lift   
Of swimmers their lost morning eyes,   
And ocean rivers, churning, shift   
Green borders under stranger skies,

Steadily as a shell secretes
Its beating leagues of monotone,
Or as many waters trough the sun’s   
Red kelson past the cape’s 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 siroccos 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 oar!

The imaged Word, it is, that holds   
Hushed willows anchored in its glow.   
It is the unbetrayable reply
Whose accent no farewell can know.