Copper Sun (Cullen)/On the Mediterranean Sea
On the Mediterranean Sea[1]
THAT weaver of words, the poet whoFirst named this sullen sea the blue,And left off painting there, he knewHow rash a man would be to tryPrecise defining of such a dyeAs lurks within this colored spume.And for retelling little roomHe willed to singers then unbornBut destined later years, at morn,High noon, twilight, or night to viewThis Protean sheet, and anguish throughThe mind to paint its wayward hue.Not Helen’s eyes, no vaunted stainsThat shone in Cressid’s lacy veins,Not those proud fans the peacocks spread,No sky that ever arched its headAbove a wonder-stricken twoAghast at love, wore such a hue.Only the Hand that never erredBent on beauty, creation-spurred,Could mix and mingle such a dye,Nor leave its like in earth or sky. That sire of singers, the poet whoFirst named this sullen sea the blueAnd left off painting there, he knew!
- ↑ July 15, 1926