Summer 1951 • Vol. XIII No. 3 PoetryJuly 1, 1951 |

The Verbalist of Summer

I The verbalist, with colors at his hand, In the events and size of volant summer, Thought at the sea's edge How to wash the sovereign waters; They were in a grandeur of the actual And they leaped upon his eyes in tunes That broke from island hills in blues And flashed across the waves in mauves. Is this the sea that balks my verbalism, The meditater said, by flying hyalines, Is this sea actual? Is this the real sea? For he was the register of reality. Or is it a chasm where old bones are rolled; Forced peace with roaring rollers made In the mad tangles of sea bells, fog, fate, That specific for the forecast of our doom? Or is it, while his nimble fingers flexed The dawns, the sunsets of old centuries, Awaiting the charms of elegance, of synthesis Which ones to use, which tones to blend, Is it the subtle messenger of nature Hidden in the complexity of Psyche That here appears, and are these bells, these shades The temper of our mysterious complicity? Was

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