I do not know more than the Sea tells me, told me long ago, or I overheard Her telling distant roar upon the sands, waves of meaning in the cradle of whose sounding and resounding power I slept.
Manchild, She sang
--or was it a storm uplifting the night into a moving wall in which I was carried as if a mothering nest had been made in dread?
the wave of a life darker than my life before me sped, and I, larger than I was, grown dark as the shoreless depth, arose from myself, shaking the last light of the sun from me.
Manchild, She said,
Come back to the shores of what you are. Come back to the crumbling shores.
All night The mothering tides in which your Life first formd in the brooding light have quencht the bloody Splendors of the sun
and, under the triumphant processions of the moon, lay down thunder upon thunder of an old longing, the beat
of whose repeated spell consumes you.
Thetis, then, my mother, has promised me the mirage of a boat, a vehicle of water within the water, and my soul would return from the trials of its human state, from the long siege, from the struggling companions upon the plain, from the burning towers and deeds of honor and dishonor, the deeper unsatisfied war beneath and behind the declared war, and the rubble of beautiful, patiently workt moonstones, agates, jades, obsidians,
turnd and retrund in the wash of the tides, the gleaming waste, the pathetic wonder,
words turnd in the phrases of song before our song ...or are they
beautiful, patiently workt remembrances of those long gone from me, returned anew, ghostly in the light of the moon, old faces?
For Thetis, my mother, has promised me a boat, a lover, an up-lifter of my spirit into the rage of my first element rising, a princedom in the unreal, a share in Death