(In Illusion, seeking to express myself in the clearest manner possible, I have, for this effect, violated the rules common of rhythm and poetry.)
I stood upon surf-booming cliffs
And heard the tide-race roaring, roaring strong and deep and free;
On tall wind wings the white clouds sudded by.
Far to the eat the ocean met the sky
And the booming cliffs re-echoed to the thunder of the sea.
Green are the waves and fringed with white the crest:
Strong colour contrasts, turquoise, sapphire, now.
Tumbling the jade green billows from the west
Roars the wild sea-wind. Keep your sea. I go.
Stranger to me the fierce red-blooded zest,
The wild beast urge, the primitive behest.
Fierce primal impulses are thoughts I do not know.
I've ever dwelt 'mid worlds of vaguer tone,
All tints and colors merging soft and dim,
No garish flare of reds at the desert's rim—
The sea-winds murmur there a pleasing drone;
The sea-fogs grace the ocean, friendly, grey.
'Mid soft-hued woodlands shy nymphs have their play.
Ad so I'll none of all this garish joy,
These blazing dawns that leap like maids o'er-bold;
The flaming greens and reds and yellows cloy,
Barbaric tints of crimson, blazing gold.
The worlds I seek are like soft, golden chimes;
Soft merging tints that match the breeze's croon
And no false note plays in the world-scheme rhymes—
I seek soft, vague plateaus of the moon.