I, in Disgust with the Living

I, in disgust with the living, having read

Much of the accomplished dead, / Was nagged by the clucking of the robin, clucking her over-fed

Young off the nest-and what a night, I said, / Raining cats and dogs and blowing like hell, / To haul babies out of bed.

And I thought: their wings will be wet, / And heavy, in the long grass; and she will not let me help her, / she is such a fuss-Budget, and so stupid, trusting the hostile

Weather, and afraid of her friends. Oh, well.

"Afraid of her friends"? . I thought of a friendship extended / to me,

And of my rejecting it, suspicious and wary. And then I thought of the sea making

Between Ragged and Orr's, / And between their shores four miles of open water, and the wind blowing up, and a wicked swell, and me

Pitched and sliding and banged by the wave under the bow, / and drenched with spray, and snug and content.

Because I knew that the sea

Was not concerned with me, might possibly

Drown me, but willed me no ill.