Man looking into the sea，

    taking the view from those who have as much right to it as you have to

    yourself，

    it is human nature to stand in the middle of a thing，

    but you cannot stand in the middle of this；

    the sea has nothing to give but a well excavated¹ grave.

    The firs stand in a procession， each with an emerald turkey-foot at the

    top，

    reserved as their contours， saying nothing；

    repression²， however， is not the most obvious characteristic of the sea；

    the sea is a collector， quick to return a rapacious³ look.

    There are others besides you who have worn that look——

    whose expression is no longer a protest； the fish no longer investigate

    them

    for their bones have not lasted：

    men lower nets， unconscious of the fact that they are desecrating⁴ a grave，

    and row quickly away——the blades of the oars⁵

    moving together like the feet of water-spiders as if there were no such

    thing as death.

    The wrinkles progress among themselves in a phalanx——beautiful under

    networks of foam⁶，

    and fade breathlessly while the sea rustles⁷ in and out of the seaweed；

    the birds swim through the air at top speed， emitting cat-calls as hereto-

    fore——

    the tortoise-shell scourges⁸ about the feet of the cliffs， in motion beneath

    them；

    and the ocean， under the pulsation⁹ of lighthouses and noise of bellbuoys，

    advances as usual， looking as if it were not that ocean in which dropped

    things are bound to sink——

    in which if they turn and twist， it is neither with volition¹⁰ nor

    consciousness.

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