The Atlantic is a stormy moat; and the Mediterranean, <br />The blue pool in the old garden, <br />More than five thousand years has drunk sacrifice <br />Of ships and blood, and shines in the sun; but here the Pacific-- <br />Our ships, planes, wars are perfectly irrelevant. <br />Neither our present blood-feud with the brave dwarfs <br />Nor any future world-quarrel of westering <br />And eastering man, the bloody migrations, greed of power, clash of <br /> faiths-- <br />Is a speck of dust on the great scale-pan. <br />Here from this mountain shore, headland beyond stormy headland <br /> plunging like dolphins through the blue sea-smoke <br />Into pale sea--look west at the hill of water: it is half the <br /> planet: <br /> this dome, this half-globe, this bulging <br />Eyeball of water, arched over to Asia, <br />Australia and white Antartica: those are the eyelids that never <br /> close; <br /> this is the staring unsleeping <br />Eye of the earth; and what it watches is not our wars.<br /><br />Robinson Jeffers<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-eye/
