by W. S. Merwin
It is not its air but our own awe
That freezes us. Hardest of all to believe
That so fearsome a destroyer can be
So dead, with those lights moving in it,
With the sea all around it so charged
With its influence. It seems that only now
We realize the depth of the waters, the
Abyss over which we float among such
Clouds. And still not understanding
The coldness of most elegance, even
With so vast and heartless a splendor
Before us, stare, caught in the magnetism
Of great silence, thinking: This is the terror
That cannot be charted, this is only
A little of it. And recall how many
Mariners, watching the sun set, have seen
These peaks on the horizon and made sail
Through the darkness for islands that no map
Had promised, floating blessed in
The west. These must dissolve
Before they can again grow apple trees.
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