In hollows of the liquid hills
Where the long Blue Ridges run,
The flattery of no echo thrills,
For echo the seas have none;
Nor aught that gives man back man’s strain—
The hope of his heart, the dream in his brain.
IV
On ocean where the embattled fleets repair,
Man, suffering inflictor, sails on sufferance there.
V
Implacable I, the old Implacable Sea:
Implacable most when most I smile serene—
Pleased, not appeased, by myriad wrecks in me.
VI
Curled in the comb of yon billow Andean,
Is it the Dragon’s heaven-challenging crest?
Elemental mad ramping of ravening waters—
Yet Christ on the Mount, and the dove in her nest!
VII
Healed of my hurt, I laud the inhuman Sea—
Yea, bless the Angels Four that there convene;
For healed I am ever by their pitiless breath
Distilled in wholesome dew named rosmarine.