Summer 1959 • Vol. XXI No. 3 PoetryJuly 1, 1959 |

Fabulists

More than the light of summer and the shimmer rising and faintly falling did they fashion, more than the fiction of the night and sea and colors of the water darkly conjure, more, even, than the sailers and green swimmers early to wake and tinged with orange dream. And ships: I think of sails at their command swollen with voyages, a rage of noon, surf on the deck, deep skiffs, sloops under way, the falling to islands, suns, the sea's hot acid, nothing unknown to them of day, of evening, merciless canvas, silk of darkling fleets. And swimmers: how they walked the tropic waters, flutes in their bones and trumpets in the blood, and how they skimmed the fires of the air, sure at the wrists, astonished with their grace, nothing unknown to them of stroke, of plummet, ruinous straits, the lashings of sheer salt. And sleepers, that tumultuous swoop of darkness fleshing the midnights to the bone of morning: what shall be said of them on that pure sheet cool on the beaches, fragran

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