Whirlpool

Resurgent sorrow is a sea in the cave
Of the mind-just as in the poem
It gluts it-though no nymphs will quire a hymn;
Abandon it! ... Take a trip to the upper shore. Lave
Yourself in sand; gather poppies; brave
The fringe of things, denying that inner chasm.
Why , the hush of the sea's in the seashell; in the limb
Of the smashed ship, its tempest; and your grave
The sand itself if you'd have it so. Yet glare
Through a sky of love all day, still must you receive
In that cave the special anguish of your life;
With the skull of the seagull and the wreck you may fare
Well enough, but will not escape that other surf,
Remorse, your host, who haunts the whirlpool where
The past's not washed up dead and black and dry
But wh irls in its gulf forever, to no relief.