Randall Jarrell
THE ISLAND
"While sun and sea-and I, and I–
Were warped through summer on our spar,
I guessed beside the
fin,
the gull,
And Europe ebbing like a sail
A life indifferent as a star.
"My lids were grating to their close,
My palms were loosening to die,
When-failing through its drift of surf,
Whale-humped, its beaches cracked with salt–
The island gave its absent sigh.
"Years notched my hut, my whiskers soughed
Through summer's witless stare: blue day
Flickered above the nothingness
That rimmed me, the unguessed abyss
Broke on my beaches, and its spray
"Frosted or salted with its curling smile
The printless hachures of the sand . . . .
Till I saw Europe, naked in its surf,
Open to my barbed limbs the leagues
Of its dark blood, the sweet moon wet with bars
"The locks that glittered to the sighing wharves,
The snowman kissed my entrails like a wolf.
Along the windows where the puddings blazed
My heart trudged rattling its red beads-
Corn popped, the goose gushed grease; my tears danced down
