by Wallace Stevens

    She sang beyond the genius of the sea.

    The water never formed to mind or voice，

    Like a body wholly body， fluttering

    Its empty sleeves； and yet its mimic¹ motion

    Made constant cry， caused constantly a cry，

    That was not ours although we understood，

    Inhuman²， of the veritable ocean.

    The sea was not a mask.  No more was she.

    The song and water were not medleyed sound

    Even if what she sang was what she heard.

    Since what she sang was uttered word by word.

    It may be that in all her phrases stirred

    The grinding water and the gasping³ wind；

    But it was she and not the sea we heard.

    For she was the maker⁴ of the song she sang.

    The ever-hooded， tragic-gestured sea

    Was merely a place by which she walked to sing.

    Whose spirit is this？  we said， because we knew

    It was the spirit that we sought and knew

    That we should ask this often as she sang.

    If it was only the dark voice of the sea

    That rose， or even colored by many waves；

    If it was only the outer voice of sky

    And cloud， of the sunken coral water-walled，

    However clear， it would have been deep air，

    The heaving speech of air， a summer sound

    Repeated in a summer without end

    And sound alone.  But it was more than that，

    More even than her voice， and ours， among

    The meaningless plungings of water and the wind，

    Theatrical⁵ distances， bronze shadows heaped

    On high horizons， mountainous atmospheres

    Of sky and sea.

    It was her voice that made

    The sky acutest at its vanishing.

    She measured to the hour its solitude⁶.

    She was the single artificer of the world

    In which she sang.  And when she sang， the sea，

    Whatever self it had， became the self

    That was her song， for she was the maker.  Then we，

    As we beheld⁷ her striding there alone，

    Knew that there never was a world for her

    Except the one she sang and， singing， made.

    Ramon Fernandez， tell me， if you know，

    Why， when the singing ended and we turned

    Toward the town， tell why the glassy lights，

    The lights in the fishing boats at anchor there，

    As night descended⁸， tilting⁹ in the air，

    Mastered the night and portioned out the sea，

    Fixing emblazoned zones and fiery¹⁰ poles，

    Arranging， deepening， enchanting¹¹ night.

    Oh！  Blessed rage for order， pale Ramon，

    The maker's rage to order words of the sea，

    Words of the fragrant¹² portals， dimly-starred，

    And of ourselves and of our origins，

    In ghostlier demarcations， keener sounds.

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