It is true that, older than man and ages to outlast him, the Pacific surf <br />Still cheerfully pounds the worn granite drum; <br />But there's no storm; and the birds are still, no song; no kind of excess; <br />Nothing that shines, nothing is dark; <br />There; is neither joy nor grief nor a person, the sun's tooth <br />sheathed in cloud, <br />And life has no more desires than a stone. <br />The stormy conditions of time and change are all abrogated, the essential <br />Violences of survival, pleasure, <br />Love, wrath and pain, and the curious desire of knowing, all perfectly <br />suspended. <br />In the cloudy light, in the timeless quietness, <br />One explores deeper than the nerves or heart of nature, the womb or soul, <br />To the bone, the careless white bone, the excellence.<br /><br />Robinson Jeffers<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/gray-weather/
