They drank the bitter, salt wine of the sea, <br />They breathed up drowning bubbles from below <br />While we sat in the storm's red after-glow <br />Discussing Art and Love - sipping tea. <br />I was a poet, he, an artist; she, <br />A famous actress . . . lightly to and fro <br />We shuttled epigrams as salesmen show <br />Rich silks that change in colors momently. <br /> <br />And while the fishers clung to planks and spars <br />And rode the huge backs of waves, we sat <br />Beneath a young night full of summer stars: <br />And we discussed of life this way and that <br />Until we felt, when we arose for bed, <br />That there was nothing left had not been said.<br /><br />Harry Kemp<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/seaside-talkers-provincetown-summer-of-1917/
