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Wilfrid Scawen Blunt - Written At Sea
Work rating: Low

What is my quarrel with thee, beautiful sea,
 That thus I cannot love thy waves or thee,
 Or hear thy voice but it tormenteth me?

 Why do I hate thee, who art beautiful
 Beyond all beauty, when the nights are cool,
 And the stars fade because the moon is full?

 Why do I hate thee? Thou art new and young,
 And life is thine for loving, and thy tongue
 Hath tones that I have known and loved and sung.

 Thou hast a smile which would my smiling greet;
 Thy brave heart beateth as my own doth beat,
 And thou hast tears which should be true and sweet.

 Thou art a creature, strong and fair and brave,
 Such as I might have given the world to have
 And love and cherish;--and thou art my slave.

 I have my home in thee. Thy arms enfold
 Me all night long, and I am rocked and rolled,
 And thou art never weary of thy hold.

 Thou art a woman in thy constancy,
 And worthy better love than mine could be;
 And yet, behold, I cannot suffer thee.

 If thou wert dumb; if thou wert like the sky,
 Which has not learned to speak our misery
 In any voice less rude than the wind`s cry;

 If thou wert wholly young and didst not know
 The secret of our ancient human woe,
 Or if thou knewest it wholly as I know;

 Or yet if thou wert old with all these years;
 If thou wert dull to hopes and loves and fears;
 If thou wert blind and couldst not see our tears;

 If thou wert bounded by some rocky shore,
 And hadst not given thyself thus wholly o`er
 To our poor single selves with all thy store;

 If thou wert not in thy immensity,
 A single circle circling with the sky,
 Where we must still be centres changelessly;

 If thou wert other than thou art; alas,
 If thou wert not of water, but a mass
 Of formless earth, a waveless plain of grass;

 If thou wert shapeless as the mountains are;
 If thou wert clad in some discordant wear;
 If thou wert not so blue and trim and fair;

 If thou wert decked with towns and villages;
 If there was heard, across the silent seas,
 The music of church bells upon the breeze;

 If thou wert this; or if thou wert not near,
 But I could only sit apart and hear
 The beating of thy waves, and find it drear,

 But wild and quite unknown, and far from me;
 Sea, if thou couldst no longer be the sea,
 Then I could love thee as thou lovest me.

 If thou wouldst have me love thee, beautiful sea,
 Build up a wall of dark `twixt thee and me;
 Let me not see thee; call the night to thee.

 League with the winds; rise up, and send them driven
 To roll mad clouds about thy back at even.
 Make thee a desolation of the heaven.

 Thou shouldst compel me, with thy angry voice,
 To choose `twixt death and thee; and, at the choice,
 If my cheek grew not pale, thou might`st rejoice,

 And I might love thee, oh thou monstrous sea;
 But now I cannot love thy waves or thee,
 Or bear thy beauty in my misery.
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