Not in small painted towns whose color rips The solitude of shores kelp-strung and gray, Not in La Jolla, Carmel, Monterey, Your beauty lies -- minxes with rouge-smeared lips; Not along wharf lines where a city dips Its dainty fingers in the pile-split spray -- San Pedro, Newport, San Francisco Bay -- Scumming the water with the bilge of ships: Yours is a torn and wistful beauty, born On lonely beaches when the tide is low -- Fog tangles in the marsh-grass... a forlorn Blue heron wading in the afterglow... Dull silver lapping on a wet sand-bar... And lost wings circling near a ghost-white star. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE WORLD'S DESIRE by WILLIAM ROSE BENET CROMEK SPEAKS by WILLIAM BLAKE E.W.T.: ON THE DEATH OF HIS BETTY by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN BACH'S ORGAN WORKS by THOMAS EDWARD BROWN AN ELEGY ON SIR THOMAS OVERBURY; POISONED IN THE TOWER OF LONDON by WILLIAM BROWNE (1591-1643) THE WANDERER: 6. PALINGENSIS: THE SOUL'S SCIENCE by EDWARD ROBERT BULWER-LYTTON |