Voyage
Below the green crest of this little hill
I lie and watch the close horizon line
that arches onp a few green feet away.
Rising out of the green, along the rim,
tall brown masts of winter grass are sailing,
holding their angular and cheerful husks
like pennants on a breeze. A strange flotilla,
for the air is still, yet on this small green sea,
and bearing east, these small masts cluster flying
swift and sharp. Beyond, the clouds sall too,
on a silent ocean blue with light and distance,
eastward, swift and smooth. No wind stirs
the blue or the green waters, or speeds on
the small dry angled flags or the foaming clouds,
yet the whole are of the world within my eyes
is sailing east. In the stillness motion moves
faster and faster, the small horizon swells
until at last the sea-enchanted mind
Boards the great ship, sails east and ever east
till the sun drowns, and the lengthening waves
slope in the blue-green wake of my long voyage
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