The Fable

-- Yvor Winters

Beyond the steady rock the steady sea,

In movement more immovable than station,

Gathers and washes and is gone. It comes,

A slow obscure metonymy of motion,

Crumbling the inner barriers of the brain.

But the crossed rock braces the hills and makes

A steady quiet of the steady music,

Massive with peace.

And listen, now:

The foam receding down the sand silvers

Between the grains, thin, pure as virgin words,

Lending a sheen to Nothing, whispering.