Sea Song

I will think no more of the sea! Of the big green waves And the hollowed
shore, Of the brown rock caves No more, no more Of the swell and the weed
And the bubbling foam. Memory dwells in my far away home, She has nothing
to do with me. She is old and bent With a pack On her back. Her tears all
spent, Her voice, just a crack. With an old thorn stick She hobbles along,
And a crazy song Now slow, now quick, Wheeks in her throat. And every day
While there's light on the shore She searches for something; Her withered
claw Tumbles the seaweed; She pokes in each shell Groping and mumbling
Until the night Deepens and darkens, And covers her quite, And bids her be
silent, And bids her be still. The ghostly feet Of the whispery waves
Tiptoe beside her. They follow, follow To the rocky caves In the white
beach hollow... She hugs her hands, She sobs, she shrills, And the echoes
shriek In the rocky hills. She moans: "It is lost! Let it be! Let it be! I
am old. I'm too cold. I am frightened... the sea Is too loud... it is lost,
It is gone..." Memory Wails in my far away home. 1913

by Katherine Mansfield

Comments (29)

Poem sounds like Yeats laments an epic song he wrote, filled with metaphors and allusion, misused.
wtheck- what is with the ads? ? ?
To try to interpret another’s work is useful only as a practice. The artist can never truly understand his or her own work, if truly art. We can learn more about a person, hypothetically, by studying their physical nakedness. From art we learn more about ourselves than we could ever know about another soul.
what? For the poet more value in doing nothing than in doing something that gets abused? The price of having a name..
Amazing His song a coat that other fools took and made their own, and he would rather go about naked Poetry is a window to one's soul, to grasp this is to understand poetry
See More