By Marsden Hartley (1877-1943)

‘We’ll have the sun now,’
the quaking sea gulls said
‘We’ve run the gamut of the thundering sea,
one by one one by one,
and though the wave is full of bread
a wing is often tendon-weary
of a thing so varied-vast;
we do our geodetic surveillance,
for herring are a shining thing,
a shape of sleek imagining,
a pretty circumstance.
The shiver of an ash leaf and of pine
makes other music for a day’s determining,
even sea gulls love the shape of roses
ere day closes.’

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