Ragged Island by Edna St. Vincent Millay — Read

There, there where those black spruces crowd

To the edge of the precipitous cliff, / Above your boat, under the eastern wall of the island; And no wave breaks; as if

All had been done, and long ago, that needed

Doing; and the cold tide, unimpeded

By shoal or shelving ledge, moves up and down, / Instead of in and out; And there is no driftwood there, because there is no beach;

Clean cliff going down as deep as clear water can reach;

No driftwood, such as abounds on the roaring shingle, / To be hefted home, for fires in the kitchen stove;

Barrels, banged ashore about the boiling outer harbour;

Lobster-buoys, on the eel-grass of the sheltered cove:

There, thought unbraids itself, and the mind becomes single.

There you row with tranquil oars, and the ocean

Shows no scar from the cutting of your placid keel;

Care becomes senseless there; pride and promotion

Remote; you only look; you scarcely feel.

Even adventure, with its vital uses, / Is aimless ardour now; and thrift is waste.

Oh, to be there, under the silent spruces, / Where the wide, quiet evening darkens without haste

Over a sea with death acquainted, yet forever chaste.