THE MONTEREY CYPRESS
Therocks and sands of Monterey—TheyNourished meBeside the sea.My age? It matters not—It was enough to batter me a bit; I’ve gotMy own credentials of what’s what.The way my flattened trunk is wornShows well enough I was not bornInto this planet yesterday; whoever willCan count my rings the day I fall—untilThat time, the secret I have keptShall sleep as it has slept.Had fate dealt otherwise, I might have beenBestowed in safety with my kinTo landward there, a half-mile in—Most orthodox and primIn trunk and limb.For such an orthodoxy, bah, who’d giveTwo grains of sand—they do not live!They’ve nothing tocombat. I getThe first-hand give-and-take; the wet,Flung spray, the savage shoulder-driveOf unspent blasts—on these I thrive.And then I watch—for meThe sweep of sea,Unbroken, beautiful. I get the firstOf everything. I see the burstOf evening clouds unrolledUpon a palpitating field of gold.Shot through with fiery javelins that dartUp from the sun’s red heart.So passes out my day. My nightIs moon and mist and lightOf stars—I keepThe sweepOf sky and sea—Which somehow seems all made for me.
Therocks and sands of Monterey—TheyNourished meBeside the sea.My age? It matters not—It was enough to batter me a bit; I’ve gotMy own credentials of what’s what.The way my flattened trunk is wornShows well enough I was not bornInto this planet yesterday; whoever willCan count my rings the day I fall—untilThat time, the secret I have keptShall sleep as it has slept.Had fate dealt otherwise, I might have beenBestowed in safety with my kinTo landward there, a half-mile in—Most orthodox and primIn trunk and limb.For such an orthodoxy, bah, who’d giveTwo grains of sand—they do not live!They’ve nothing tocombat. I getThe first-hand give-and-take; the wet,Flung spray, the savage shoulder-driveOf unspent blasts—on these I thrive.And then I watch—for meThe sweep of sea,Unbroken, beautiful. I get the firstOf everything. I see the burstOf evening clouds unrolledUpon a palpitating field of gold.Shot through with fiery javelins that dartUp from the sun’s red heart.So passes out my day. My nightIs moon and mist and lightOf stars—I keepThe sweepOf sky and sea—Which somehow seems all made for me.
Therocks and sands of Monterey—TheyNourished meBeside the sea.My age? It matters not—It was enough to batter me a bit; I’ve gotMy own credentials of what’s what.The way my flattened trunk is wornShows well enough I was not bornInto this planet yesterday; whoever willCan count my rings the day I fall—untilThat time, the secret I have keptShall sleep as it has slept.
Had fate dealt otherwise, I might have beenBestowed in safety with my kinTo landward there, a half-mile in—Most orthodox and primIn trunk and limb.For such an orthodoxy, bah, who’d giveTwo grains of sand—they do not live!They’ve nothing tocombat. I getThe first-hand give-and-take; the wet,Flung spray, the savage shoulder-driveOf unspent blasts—on these I thrive.
And then I watch—for meThe sweep of sea,Unbroken, beautiful. I get the firstOf everything. I see the burstOf evening clouds unrolledUpon a palpitating field of gold.Shot through with fiery javelins that dartUp from the sun’s red heart.So passes out my day. My nightIs moon and mist and lightOf stars—I keepThe sweepOf sky and sea—Which somehow seems all made for me.