The Wave

You come with the light on your face
Of the turn of a river from trees to the open sun.
You are the wandering spirit of the most beloved place-
And yet you are a joy not there begun
Nor anywhere, but always about to be.
The invisible succeeding crest
That follows from the open sea
And shall be loveliest.

I have no language, hardly any word
To name you with, I have no flight of hands
To swim your surface closer than a bird:
For endless changing countermands
Your face and blinds me blacker than a crest of sun,
O joy not yet begun But only about to be,
O sweet invisible unceasing wave
Following me, following me
Through the sea-like grave!