That I not green, nor light
upon this happened hill—
not any brother to the stone,
nor face as flint outcropped—
but eye to see where sea’s end

even so, as the sun shutters lesser light
and as the tempests pause and pulse,
lunging for our mossy land—
oh, even so, my Nature’s hand
has no part in me—

not if winters she concedes,
yet arms like evergreens,
conducts the beating of the