WHEN the surf licks with its tongues <br />these volcanic personal shapes, which we, <br />defining for ourselves as rocks, accept <br />them as such, at its feverish incoming <br />isn't it too, in its way, something like <br />the plain image of life? <br />Those restless entities disturbing solid <br />substances with a curious, irrelevant, <br />common fret <br />and, like so many simple looking elements, when <br />they seem the most playful, it is then that <br />they are most dangerous. <br />The bright woman looking out to sea <br />through the crisp telescope of her advancing <br />years, <br />there is no doubt but that she discovers the <br />same image as the child, who remarks the <br />radiant glint of his marbles on the top spray <br />of the wave he once played with, <br />or as the fringed lace on the dress of a <br />Titan's wife <br />the inwash cooling at least the eye with <br />a something exceptional white or green or <br />blue, too pale almost to mention, if <br />frightening to the marrow, <br />for many have been sent to their death trusting <br />too much while regarding it affectionately, <br />the sea.<br /><br />Marsden Hartley<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/indian-point/
