The Project Gutenberg eBook of Irradiations; Sand and Spray

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.

Title: Irradiations; Sand and Spray

Author: John Gould Fletcher

Release date: February 13, 2012 [eBook #38857]

Most recently updated: April 3, 2024

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/38857

Credits: Produced by Marc D'Hooghe (From images generously made available by the Internet Archive.)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK IRRADIATIONS; SAND AND SPRAY ***

IRRADIATIONS

SAND AND SPRAY

BY

JOHN GOULD FLETCHER

BOSTON AND NEW YORK

HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY

The Riverside Press Cambridge

1915

TO

AMY LOWELL

BEST OF FRIENDS AND POETS

Thanks are due to the Editors of Poetry (Chicago) and The Egoist (London) for permission to reprint here matter that originally appeared in the pages of their respective publications.

PREFACE

The art of poetry as practised in the English-speaking countries to-day, is in a greatly backward state. Among the reading public there are exactly three opinions generally held about it. The first, and by far the most popular, view is that all poets are fools and that poetry is absurd. The second is that poetry is an agreeable after-dinner entertainment, and that a poet is great because he has written quotable lines. The last and worst is that which strives to press the poet into the service of some philosophical dogma, ism, or fad.

For these views the poets themselves, and no others, are largely responsible. With their exaggerated vanity, they have attempted to make of their craft a Masonic secret, iterating that a poet composes by ear alone; that rhythm is not to be analyzed, that rhyme is sacrosanct; that poets, by some special dispensation of Providence, write by inspiration, being born with more insight than other men; and so forth. Is it any wonder that the public is indifferent, hostile, or befooled when poets themselves disdain to explain clearly what they are trying to do, and refuse to admit the public into the privacy of their carefully guarded workrooms?

It was Theophile Gautier, I think, who offered to teach any one how to write poetry in twenty-five lessons. Now this view has in it some exaggeration, but, at the same time, much truth. No amount of lessoning will turn an idiot into a wise man, or enable a man to say something when he is naturally one who has nothing to say. Nevertheless, I believe that there would have been fewer mute inglorious Miltons, greater respect paid to poetry, and many better poets, if the poets themselves had stopped working through sheer instinct and set themselves the task of considering some elementary principles in their craft. In this belief, and in the hope of enlightening some one as to the aim and purpose of my work, I am writing this preface.

To begin with, the basis of English poetry is rhythm, or, as some would prefer to call it, cadence. This rhythm is obtained by mingling stressed and unstressed syllables. Stress may be produced by accent. It may—and often is—produced by what is known as quantity, the breath required to pronounce certain syllables being more than is required on certain others. However it be produced, it is precisely this insistence upon cadence, upon the rhythm of the line when spoken, which sets poetry apart from prose, and not —be it said at the outset—a certain way of printing, with a capital letter at the beginning of each line, or an insistence upon end-rhymes.

Now this rhythm can be made the same in every line of the poem. This was the aim of Alexander Pope, for instance. My objection to this method is that it is both artificial and unmusical. In the case of the eighteenth century men, it gave the effect of a perfectly balanced pattern, like a minuet or fugue. In the case of the modern imitator of Kipling or Masefield, it gives the effect of monotonous rag-time. In neither case does it offer full scope for emotional development.

I maintain that poetry is capable of as many gradations in cadence as music is in time. We can have a rapid group of syllables—what is called a line—succeeded by a slow heavy one; like the swift, scurrying-up of the wave and the sullen dragging of itself away. Or we can gradually increase or decrease our tempo, creating accelerando and rallentando effects. Or we can follow a group of rapid lines with a group of slow ones, or a single slow, or vice versa. Finally, we can have a perfectly even and unaltered movement throughout if we desire to be monotonous.

The good poem is that in which all these effects are properly used to convey the underlying emotions of its author, and that which welds all these emotions into a work of art by the use of dominant motif, subordinate themes proportionate treatment, repetition, variation,—what in music is called development, reversal of roles, and return In short, the good poem fixes a free emotion, or a free range of emotions, into an inevitable and artistic whole. The real secret of the greatest English poets lies not in their views on life,—which were, naturally, only those which every sane man is obliged to hold,—but in their profound knowledge of their craft, whereby they were enabled to put forth their views in perfect form. Each era of man has its unique and self-sufficing range of expression and experience, and therefore every poet must seek anew for himself, out of the language-medium at his disposal, rhythms which are adequate and forms which are expressive of his own unique personality.

As regards the length of the lines themselves, that depends altogether upon the apparatus which Nature has given us, to enable us to breathe and to speak. Each line of a poem, however many or few its stresses, represents a single breath, and therefore a single perception. The relation between breath and perception is a commonplace of Oriental philosophy. As we breathe so do we know the universe, whether by sudden, powerful gusts of inspiration, or through the calmer—but rarer—gradual ascent into the hidden mysteries of knowledge, and slow falling away therefrom into darkness.

So much for the question of metre. The second range of problems with which we are immediately concerned, when we examine the poetic craft, is that which is generally expressed under the name of rhyme.

Now rhyme is undoubtedly an element of poetry, but it is neither an indissoluble element, nor is it, in every case, an inevitable one. In the main, the instinct which makes for rhyme is sound. Poetry is an art which demands—though not invariably—the utmost richness and fulness of musical effect. When rhyme is considered as an additional instrument of what may be called the poetic orchestra, it both loses and gains in importance. It loses because it becomes of no greater import than assonance, consonance, alliteration, and a host of similar devices. It gains because it is used intelligently as a device for adding richness of effect, instead of blindly as a mere tag at the end of a line.

The system which demands that the end of every line of poetry must rhyme with the end of some one preceding or following it, has not even the merit of high antiquity or of civilized adherence. In its essence it is barbarous; it derives from the stamping of feet, clapping of hands, pounding of drums, or like devices of savage peoples to mark the rhythms in their dances and songs. And its introduction into European poetry, as a rule to be invariably followed, dates precisely from the time of the break-up of the Latin civilization, and the approach of what the historians know as the Dark Ages. Since it has come into common use among European peoples, every poet of eminence has tried to avoid its fatiguing monotony, by constructing new stanza-forms. Dante, Petrarch, Chaucer, Spenser, all these were innovators or developers of what may be known as formal metre. But let us not forget that the greatest of all, Shakespeare, used rhyme in his plays, only as additional decoration to a lyric, or in a perfectly legitimate fashion as marking the necessary pause at the close of a scene. Let us also remember that, as he advanced in thought and expression, he gradually abandoned rhyme for the only reason that an artist abandons anything; because it was no longer adequate.

The process that began with the Pervigilium Veneris, the mediæval hymn-writers, and the Provençal troubadours, and which culminated in the orchestral blank verse of Shakespeare, has now passed through all the stages of reduction to formula, eclecticism, archaistic reaction, vulgarization, gramaphone popularity, and death. Milton—Gibbon among poets—reduced it to his too-monotonous organ-roll. Dryden, Pope and his followers, endlessly repeated a formula. Blake, Wordsworth, Coleridge, attempted a return to the Elizabethan and to the even earlier ballad forms. In the later nineteenth century we come back to still earlier forms. Ballades, rondeaus, even sestinas appear. Gradually we find the public attention dropping away from these juggling feats performed with stale form, and turning to what may be called the new balladist—the street singer who is content to doggerelize and make strident a once noble form. We have our Masefields, our Kiplings, and worse. Rag-time has at last made its appearance in poetry. Let us be grateful to the man who invented it—Nicholas Vachel Lindsay—but let us admit that the force of nature can no further go.

It is time to create something new. It is time to strip poetry of meaningless tatters of form, and to clothe her in new, suitable garments. Portents and precursors there have been in plenty. We already have Blake, Matthew Arnold, Whitman, Samuel Butler, and I know not how many more. Every one is talking—many poets, poeticules, and poetasters are writing—what they call "free verse." Let there be no mistake about one thing. Free verse that is flabby, in-organic, shapelessly obvious, is as much of a crime against poetry as the cheapest echo of a Masefield that any doggerel scribbler ever strummed. Let poets drop their formulas—"free" or otherwise—and determine to discipline themselves through experiment. There is much to be learned from the precursors I have mentioned. There is a great deal to be learned from the French poets—Parnassians, Symbolists, Whitmanites, Fantaisistes—who have, in the years 1860 to 1900, created a new Renaissance under our noses. But above all, what will teach us the most is our language and life. Never was life lived more richly, more fully, with more terrible blind intensity than it is being lived at this instant. Never was the noble language which is ours surpassed either in richness or in concision. We have the material with which to work, and the tools to do the work with. It is America's opportunity to lay the foundations for a new flowering of English verse, and to lay them as broad as they are strong.

January, 1915.

CONTENTS

IRRADIATIONS

EPILOGUE

SAND AND SPRAY (A SEA-SYMPHONY)

PART I. THE GALE

PART II. VARIATIONS

(1) SAILBOATS

(2) THE TIDE

(3) THE SANDS

(4) THE GULLS

(5) STEAMERS

(6) NIGHT OF STARS

PART III. VARIATIONS

(1) THE GROUNDSWELL

(2) SNOW AT SEA

(3) THE NIGHT WIND

(4) THE WRECK

(5) TIDE OF STORMS

PART IV. THE CALM

IRRADIATIONS

I

The spattering of the rain upon pale terraces

Of afternoon is like the passing of a dream

Amid the roses shuddering 'gainst the wet green stalks

Of the streaming trees—the passing of the wind

Upon the pale lower terraces of my dream

Is like the crinkling of the wet grey robes

Of the hours that come to turn over the urn

Of the day and spill its rainy dream.

Vague movement over the puddled terraces:

Heavy gold pennons—a pomp of solemn gardens

Half hidden under the liquid veil of spring:

Far trumpets like a vague rout of faded roses

Burst 'gainst the wet green silence of distant forests:

A clash of cymbals—then the swift swaying footsteps

Of the wind that undulates along the languid terraces.

Pools of rain—the vacant terraces

Wet, chill and glistening

Towards the sunset beyond the broken doors of to-day.

II

Gaunt sails—bronze boats of the evening—

Float along the river where aloft

Like dim swans the clouds die

Softly.

I am afraid to traverse the long still streets of evening;

For I fear to see the ghosts that stare at me

From the shadows.

I will stay indoors instead and await my wandering dream.

She is about me, fluid yet, and formless;

The wind in her hair whispers like dim violins:

And the faint glint of her eyes shifts like a sudden movement

Over the surface of a dark pool.

She comes to me slowly down the lost streets of the evening,

And their immutable silence is in her feet.

Let no lamps flare—be still, my heart—hands, stay:

For I would touch the lips of my new love with my lips.

III

In the grey skirts of the fog seamews skirl desolately,

And flick like bits of paper propelled by a wind

About the flabby sails of a departing ship

Crawling slowly down the low reaches

Of the river.

About the keel there is a bubbling and gurgling

Of grumpy water;

And as the prow noses out a way for itself,

It seems to weave a dream of bubbles and flashing foam,

A dream of strange islands whereto it is bound:

Pear-islands drenched with the dawn.

The palms flash under the immense dark sky,

Down which the sun dives to embrace the earth:

Drums boom and conches bray,

And with a crash of crimson cymbals

Suddenly appears above the polished backs of slaves

A king in a breastplate of gold

Gigantic

Amid tossed roses and swaying dancers

That melt into pale undulations and muffled echoes

'Mid the bubbling of the muddy lumpy water,

And the swirling of the seamews above the sullen river.

IV

The iridescent vibrations of midsummer light

Dancing, dancing, suddenly flickering and quivering

Like little feet or the movement of quick hands clapping,

Or the rustle of furbelows or the clash of polished gems.

The palpitant mosaic of the midday light

Colliding, sliding, leaping and lingering:

O, I could lie on my back all day,

And mark the mad ballet of the midsummer sky.

V

Over the roof-tops race the shadows of clouds;

Like horses the shadows of clouds charge down the street.

Whirlpools of purple and gold,

Winds from the mountains of cinnabar,

Lacquered mandarin moments, palanquins swaying and balancing

Amid the vermilion pavilions, against the jade balustrades.

Glint of the glittering wings of dragon-flies in the light:

Silver filaments, golden flakes settling downwards,

Rippling, quivering flutters, repulse and surrender,

The sun broidered upon the rain,

The rain rustling with the sun.

Over the roof-tops race the shadows of clouds;

Like horses the shadows of clouds charge down the street.

VI

The balancing of gaudy broad pavilions

Of summer against the insolent breeze:

The bellying of the sides of striped tents,

Swelling taut, shuddering in quick collapse,

Silent under the silence of the sky.

Earth is streaked and spotted

With great splashes and dapples of sunlight:

The sun throws an immense circle of hot light upon the world,

Rolling slowly in ponderous rhythm

Darkly, musically forward.

All is silent under the steep cone of afternoon:

The sky is imperturbably profound.

The ultimate divine union seems about to be accomplished,

All is troubled at the attainment

Of the inexhaustible infinite.

The rolling and the tossing of the sides of immense pavilions

Under the whirling wind that screams up the cloudless sky.

VII

Flickering of incessant rain

On flashing pavements:

Sudden scurry of umbrellas:

Bending, recurved blossoms of the storm.

The winds came clanging and clattering

From long white highroads whipping in ribbons up summits:

They strew upon the city gusty wafts of appleblossom,

And the rustling of innumerable translucent leaves.

Uneven tinkling, the lazy rain

Dripping from the eaves.

VIII

The fountain blows its breathless spray

From me to you and back to me.

Whipped, tossed, curdled,

Crashing, quivering:

I hurl kisses like blows upon your lips.

The dance of a bee drunken with sunlight:

Irradiant ecstasies, white and gold,

Sigh and relapse.

The fountain tosses pallid spray

Far in the sorrowful, silent sky.

IX

The houses of the city no longer hum and play:

They lie like careless drowsy giants, dumb, estranged.

One presses to his breast his toy, a lighted pane:

One stirs uneasily: one is cold in death.

And the late moon, fearfully peering over an immense shoulder,

Sees, in the shadow below, the unpeopled hush of a street.

X

The trees, like great jade elephants,

Chained, stamp and shake 'neath the gadflies of the breeze

The trees lunge and plunge, unruly elephants:

The clouds are their crimson howdah-canopies,

The sunlight glints like the golden robe of a Shah.

Would I were tossed on the wrinkled backs of those trees

XI

The clouds are like a sombre sea:

On shining screens of ebony

Are carven marvels of my heart.

'Gainst crimson placques of cinnabar

Shrills, like a diamond, dawn's last star.

The gardens of my heart are green:

The rain drips off the glistening leaves.

In the humid gardens of my soul,

The crimson peonies explode.

I am like a drop of rose-flushed rain,

Clinging to crimson petals of love.

In the afternoon, over gold screens,

I will brush the blue dust of my dreams.

XII

The pine, rough-bearded Pan of the woods

Whispered in my ear his sleepy-sweet song.

Like liquid fire it ran through my veins.

Thus he piped: Sad, lonely son of the woods,

Lie down in the long still grass and sleep,

Ere the dawn has hidden her swelling breasts,

Ere the morning has covered her massive flanks,

With the flame-coloured mantle of noon.

Lie down in the dewless grass nor awake

To see whether afternoon has hurried in

From the rim of her purple robe dropping dim flowers

Golden flowers with pollen-dusty cups,

Flowers of silence. Heed not though eve

Should sail, a grey swan, in the pool of the sky,

Spreading low ripples. Heed these not!

Only awake when slim twilight

Plunges her body in the last blown spray of the sun!

Awake, then, for twilight and dawn are your day:

Therefore lie down in the long dim grass and sleep,

And I will blow my low pipes over you.

XIII

As I went through the city by day

I saw shadows in sunlight:

But in the night I saw everywhere

Stars within the darkness.

(A coldly fluting breeze:

Dark Pan under the trees.

Low laughter: up the sky

A star like a street-lamp left on high.)

As I went through the city by day

I was hustled by jostling people.

But in the night, the wind of the darkness

Whispered, "Hush!" to my soul.

XIV

Brown bed of earth, still fresh and warm with love,

Now hold me tight:

Broad field of sky, where the clouds laughing move,

Fill up my pores with light:

You trees, now talk to me, chatter and scold or weep,

Or drowsing stand:

You winds, now play with me, you wild things creep,

You boulders, bruise my hand!

I now am yours and you are mine: it matters not

What Gods herein I see:

You grow in me, I am rooted to this spot,

We drink and pass the cup, immortally.

XV

O seeded grass, you army of little men

Crawling up the long slope with quivering, quick blades of steel:

You who storm millions of graves, tiny green tentacles of Earth,

Interlace yourselves tightly over my heart,

And do not let me go:

For I would lie here forever and watch with one eye

The pilgrimaging ants in your dull, savage jungles,

The while with the other I see the stiff lines of the slope

Break in mid-air, a wave surprisingly arrested,

And above them, wavering, dancing, bodiless, colourless, unreal,

The long thin lazy fingers of the heat.

XVI

An ant crawling up a grass-blade,

And above it, the sky.

I shall remember these when I die:

An ant and a butterfly

And the sky.

The grass is full of forget-me-nots and poppies:

Through the air darts many a fly.

The ant toils up its grass-blade,

The careless hours go by.

The grass-blades bow to the feet of the lazy hours:

They walk out of the wood, showering shadows on flowers.

Their robes flutter vaguely far off there in the clearing:

I see them sometimes from the corner of my eye.

XVII

The wind that drives the fine dry sand

Across the strand:

The sad wind spinning arabesques

With a wrinkled hand.

Labyrinths of shifting sand,

The dancing dunes!

I will arise and run with the sand,

And gather it greedily in my hand:

I will wriggle like a long yellow snake over the beaches.

I will lie curled up, sleeping,

And the wind shall chase me

Far inland.

My breath is the music of the mad wind;

Shrill piping, stamping of drunken feet,

The fluttering, tattered broidery flung

Over the dunes' steep escarpments.

The fine dry sand that whistles

Down the long low beaches.

XVIII

Blue, brown, blue: sky, sand, sea:

I swell to your immensity.

I will run over the endless beach,

I will shout to the breaking spray,

I will touch the sky with my fingers.

My happiness is like this sand:

I let it run out of my hand.

XIX

The clouds pass

Over the polished mirror of the sky:

The clouds pass, puffs of grey,

There is no star.

The clouds pass slowly:

Suddenly a disengaged star flashes.

The night is cold and the clouds

Roll slowly over the sky.

XX

I dance:

I exist in motion:

A wind-shaken flower spilling my drops in the sunlight.

I feel the muscles bending, relaxing beneath me;

I direct the rippling sweep of the lines of my body;

Its impact crashes through the thin walls of the atmosphere,

I dance.

About me whirls

The sombre hall, the gaudy stage, the harsh glare of the footlights,

And in the brains of thousands watching

Little flames leap quivering to the music of my effort.

I have danced:

I have expressed my soul

In unbroken rhythm,

Sorrow, and flame.

I am tired: I would be extinguished beneath your beating hands.

XXI

Not noisily, but solemnly and pale,

In a meditative ecstasy you entered life:

As performing some strange rite, to which you alone held the clue.

Child, life did not give rude strength to you;

from the beginning, you would seem to have thrown away,

As something cold and cumbersome, that armour men use against death.

You would perhaps look on him face to face, and so learn the secret

Whether that face wears oftenest a smile or no?

Strange, old, and silent being, there is something

Infinitely vast in your intense tininess:

I think you could point out, with a smile, some curious star

Far off in the heavens, which no man has seen before.

XXII

The morning is clean and blue and the wind blows up the clouds:

Now my thoughts gathered from afar

Once again in their patched armour, with rusty plumes and blunted swords,

Move out to war.

Smoking our morning pipes we shall ride two and two

Through the woods.

For our old cause keeps us together,

And our hatred is so precious not death or defeat can break it.

God willing, we shall this day meet that old enemy

Who has given us so many a good beating.

Thank God we have a cause worth fighting for,

And a cause worth losing and a good song to sing.

XXIII

Torridly the moon rolls upward

Against the smooth immensity of midsummer sky,

Changeless, inexhaustible:

The city beneath is still:

Heaven and Earth are clasped together,

Momently life grows as careless

As the life of the intense stars.

Out of the houses climbing,

Fuming up windows, flickering from every roof-top,

Rigid on sonorous pinnacles,

Silently swirl aloft

Love's infinite flamelets.

XXIV

O all you stars up yonder,

Do you hear me? Beautiful, winking, sullen eyes,

I am tired of seeing you in the same old places,

Night after night in the sky.

I hoped you would dance—but after twenty-six years,

I find you are determined to stay as you are.

So I make it known to you, stars clustered or solitary,

That I want you to fall into my lap to-night.

Come down, little stars, let me play with you:

I will string you like beads, and shovel you together,

And wear you in my ears, and scatter you over people—

And toss you back, like apples, if I choose.

XXV

As I wandered over the city through the night,

I saw many strange things:

But I have forgotten all

Except one painted face.

Gaudy, shameless night-orchid,

Heavy, flushed, sticky with narcotic perfume,

There was something in you which made me prefer you

Above all the feeble forget-me-nots of the world.

You were neither burnt out nor pallid,

There was plain, coarse, vulgar meaning in every line of you

And no make-believe:

You were at least alive,

When all the rest were but puppets of the night.

XXVI

Slowly along the lamp-emblazoned street,

Amid the last sad drifting crowds of midnight

Like lost souls wandering,

Comes marching by solemnly

As for some gem-bedecked ritual of old,

A monotonous procession of black carts

Full crowded with blood-red blossom:

Scarlet geraniums

Unfolding their fiery globes upon the night.

These are the memories of day moulded in jagged flame:

Lust, joy, blood, and death.

With crushed hands, weary eyes, and hoarse clamour,

We consecrate and acclaim them tumultuously

Ere they pass, contemptuous, beyond the unpierced veil of silence.

XXVII

I think there was an hour in which God laughed at me,

For as I passed along the street,

saw that all the women—although their bodies were dexterously concealed—

Were thinking with all their might what men were like:

And the men, mechanically correct, cigars at lips,

Were wanting to rush at the women,

But were restrained by respectability or timidity,

Or fear of the consequences or vanity or some puerile dream

Of a pale ideal lost in the vast grey sky.

So I said to myself, it is time to end all this:

I will take the first woman that comes along.

And then God laughed at me—and I too smiled

To see that He was in such good humour and that the sun was shining.

XXVIII

I remember, there was a day

During which I did not write a line of verse:

Nor did I speak a word to any woman,

Nor did I meet with death.

Yet all that day I was fully occupied:

My eyes saw trees, clouds, streets, houses, people;

My lungs breathed air;

My mouth swallowed food and drink;

My hands seized things, my feet touched earth,

Or spurned it at my desire.

On that day I know I would have been sufficiently happy,

If I could have kept my brain from bothering at all

About my next trite poem;

About the tedious necessities of sex;

And about the day on which I would at last meet death.

XXIX

It is evening, and the earth

Wraps her shoulders in an old blue shawl.

Afar off there clink the polychrome points of the stars,

Indefatigable, after all these years!

Here upon earth there is life, and then death,

Dawn, and later nightfall,

Fire, and the quenching of embers:

But why should I not remember that my night is dawn in another part of

the world,

If the idea fits my fancy?

Dawns of marvellous light, wakeful, sleepy, weary, dancing dawns,

You are rose petals settling through the blue of my evening:

I light my pipe to salute you,

And sit puffing smoke in the air and never say a word.

XXX

I have seemed often feeble and useless to myself,

And many times I have wished that the tedium of my life

Lay at last dissolved in the cold acid of death:

Yet I have not forgotten

The sparkling of waters in the sunlight,

The sound of a woman's voice,

Gliding dancers,

Chanting worshippers,

A child crying,

The wind amid the hills.

These I can remember,

And I think they are more of me

Than the wrinkles on my face and the hungry ache at my heart.

XXXI

My stiff-spread arms

Break into sudden gesture;

My feet seize upon the rhythm;

My hands drag it upwards:

Thus I create the dance.

I drink of the red bowl of the sunlight:

I swim through seas of rain:

I dig my toes into earth:

I taste the smack of the wind:

I am myself:

I live.

The temples of the gods are forgotten or in ruins:

Professors are still arguing about the past and the future:

I am sick of reading marginal notes on life,

I am weary of following false banners:

I desire nothing more intensely or completely than this present;

There is nothing about me you are more likely to notice than my being:

Let me therefore rejoice silently,

A golden butterfly glancing against an unflecked wall.

XXXII

Today you shall have but little song from me,

For I belong to the sunlight.

This I would not barter for any kingdom.

I am a wheeling swallow,

Blue all over is my delight.

I am a drowsy grass-blade

In the greenest shadow.

XXXIII

My desire goes bristling and growling like an angry leopard;

My ribs are a hollow grating, my hair is coarse and hard,

My flanks are like sharp iron wedges, my eyes glitter as chill glass;

Down below there are the meadows where my famished hopes are feeding,

I will waylay them to windward, stalking in watchful patience,

I will pounce upon them, plunging my muzzle in the hot spurt of their

blood.

XXXIV

The flag let loose for a day of festivity;

Free desperate symbol of battle and desire,

Leaping, lunging, tossing up the halyards;

Below it a tumult of music,

Above it the streaming wastes of the sky,

Pinnacles of clouds, pyres of dawn,

Infinite effort, everlasting day.

The immense flag waving

Aloft in glory:

Over seas and hilltops

Transmitting its lightnings.

XXXV

What weave you, what spin you,

What wonder win you,

You looms of desire?

Sin that is splendour,

Love that is shameless,

Life that is glory,

Life that is all.

XXXVI

Like cataracts that crash from a crumbling crag

Into the dull-blue smouldering gulf of a lake below,

Landlocked amid the mountains, so my soul

Was a gorge that was filled with the warring echoes of song.

Of old, they wore

Shining armour, and banners of broad gold they bore:

Now they drift, like a wild bird's cry,

Downwards from chill summits of the sky.

Fountains of flashing joy were their source afar;

Now they lie still, to mirror every star.

In circles of opal, ruby, blue, out-thrown,

They drift down to a dull, dark monotone.

Pluck the loose strings, singer,

Thrum the strings;

For the wind brings distant, drowsy bells of song.

Loose the plucked string, poet,

Spurn the strings,

For the echoes of memory float through the gulf for long.

My songs seem now one humming note afar:

Light as ether, quivering 'twixt star and star,

But yet, so still

I know not whence they come, if mine they are.

Yet that low note

Increases in force as if it said, "I will":

Kindled by God's fierce breath, it would the whole world fill.

Till steadily outwards thrown,

By trumpets blazoned, from the sky downblown,

It grows a vast march, massive, monotonous, known

Of old gold trumpeteers

Through infinite years:

Bursting the white, thronged vaults of the cool sky.

Till hurtling down there falls one mad black hammer-blow:

Then the chained echoes in their maniac woe

Are loosed against the silence, to shriek uncannily.

The strings shiver faintly, poet:

Strike the strings,

Speed the song:

Tremulous upward rush of wheeling, whirling wings.

EPILOGUE

The barking of little dogs in the night is more remembered than

the shining of the stars:

Only those who watch for long may see the moon rise:

And they are mad ever after and go with blind eyes

Nosing hungrily in the gutter for the scraps that men throw to the dogs;

Few heed their babblings.

SAND AND SPRAY

A SEA-SYMPHONY

PART I. THE GALE

Allegro furioso.

Pale green-white, in a gallop across the sky,

The clouds retreating from a perilous affray

Carry the moon with them, a heavy sack of gold;

Sharp arrows, stars between them shoot and play.

The wind, as it strikes the sand,

Clutches with rigid hands

And tears from them

Thin ribbons of pallid sleet,

Long stinging hissing drift,

Which it trails up inland.

I lean against the bitter wind:

My body plunges like a ship.

Out there I see grey breakers rise,

Their ravelled beards are white,

And foam is in their eyes.

My heart is blown from me tonight

To be transfixed by all the stars.

Steadily the wind

Rages up the shore:

In the trees it roars and battles,

With rattling drums

And heavy spears,

Towards the housefronts on it comes.

The village, a loose mass outflung,

Breaks its path.

Between the walls

It bounces, tosses in its wrath.

It is broken, it is lost.

With green-grey eyes,

With whirling arms,

With clashing feet,

With bellowing lungs,

Pale green-white in a gallop across the sky,

The wind comes.

The great gale of the winter flings himself flat upon earth.

He hurriedly scribbles on the sand

His transient tragic destiny.

PART II. VARIATIONS

(1) SAILBOATS

Scherzando.

Light as thin-winged swallows pirouetting and gyrating,

The sails dance in the estuary:

Now heeling to the gust, now cantering,

Bobbing as shuttles back and forth from each other.

I They scorn the black steamers that steadily near them

I On a course direct, with white spume of smoke from their bows,

With snapping crash of breakers they fling themselves forward:

Black on the wing-tips, white on the underside.

These are the birds of the land breeze,

Nesting on green waves in the gold sunlight:

These are the sailships

Heeling and tossing about in the estuary.

(2) THE TIDE

Con moto ondeggiante

The tide makes music

At the foot of the beach;

The waves sing together

Rumble of breakers.

Ships there are swaying,

Into the distance,

Thrum of the cordage,

Slap of the sails.

The tide makes music

At the foot of the beach;

Low notes of an organ

'Gainst the dull clang of bells.

The tide's tense purple

On the untrodden sand:

Its throat is blue,

Its hands are gold.

The tide makes music:

The tide all day

Catches light from the clouds

That float over the sky.

Ocean, old serpent,

Coils up and uncoils;

With sinuous motion,

With rustle of scales.

(3) THE SANDS

Lento.

Shallow pools of water

Are drinking up the sky;

Chasms of cool blue-white

In the brown of the sands.

The clouds are in them,

The houses on the shore,

The winds rumple the even

Glimmer of the reflection.

Appassionato.

I dash across those shallow pools:

Starring their gauzy surface:

A plopping rush of bubbles:

I turn and watch my boot-tracks

Oozing upwards slowly in the dark wind-wrinkled sand.

(4) THE GULLS

Molto Allegro.

White stars scattering,

Pale rain of spray-drops,

Delicate flash of smoke wind-drifted low and high,

Silver upon dark purple,

The gulls quiver

In a noiseless flight, far out across the sky.

(5) STEAMERS

Maestoso.

Like black plunging dolphins with red bellies,

The steamers in herds

Swim through the choppy breakers

On this day of winds and clouds.

Wallowing and plunging,

They seek their path,

The smoke of their snorting

Hangs in the sky.

Like black plunging dolphins with red bellies,

The steamers pass,

Flapping their propellers

Salt with the spray.

Their iron sides glisten,

Their stays thrash:

Their funnels quiver

With the heat from beneath.

Like black plunging dolphins with red bellies,

The steamers together

Dive and roll through the tumult

Of green hissing water.

These are the avid of spoil,

Gleaners of the seas,

They loom on their adventure

Up purple and chrome horizons.

(6) NIGHT OF STARS

Allegro brillante.

The sky immense, bejewelled with rain of stars,

Hangs over us:

The stars like a sudden explosion powder the zenith

With green and gold;

North-east, south-west the Milky Way's pale streamers

Flash past in flame;

The sky is a swirling cataract

Of fire, on high.

Over us the sky up to the zenith

Palpitates with tense glitter:

About our keel the foam bubbles and curdles

In phosphorescent joy.

Flame boils up to meet down-rushing flame

In the blue stillness.

Aloft a single orange meteor

Crashes down the sky.

PART III. VARIATIONS

(1) THE GROUNDSWELL

Marcia Funebre.

With heavy doleful clamour, hour on hour, and day on day,

The muddy groundswell lifts and breaks and falls and slides away.

The cold and naked wind runs shivering over the sands,

Salt are its eyes, open its mouth, its brow wet, blue its hands.

It finds naught but a starving gull whose wings trail at its side,

And the dull battered wreckage, grey jetsam of the tide.

The lifeless chilly slaty sky with no blue hope is lit,

A rusty waddling steamer plants a smudge of smoke on it.

Stupidly stand the factory chimneys staring over all,

The grey grows ever denser, and soon the night will fall:

The wind runs sobbing over the beach and touches with its hands

Straw, chaff, old bottles, broken crates, the litter of the sands.

Sometimes the bloated carcase of a dog or fish is found,

Sometimes the rumpled feathers of a sea-gull shot or drowned.

Last year it was an unknown man who came up from the sea,

There is his grave hard by the dunes under a stunted tree.

With heavy doleful clamour, hour on hour, and day on day,

The muddy groundswell lifts and breaks and falls and slides away.

(2) SNOW AT SEA

Andante.

Silently fell

The snow on the waters

In the grey dusk

Of the winter evening:

Swirling and falling,

Sucked into the oily

Blue-black surface

Of the sea.

We pounded on slowly;

From our bows sheeted

A shuddering mass of heavy foam:

Night closed about us,

But ere we were darkened,

We saw close in

A great gaunt schooner

Beating to southward.

Silently fell

The snow on the waters,

As we pounded north

In the winter evening.

(3) THE NIGHT WIND

Adagio lamentoso.

Wind of the night, wind of the long cool shadows,

Wind from the garden gate stealing up the avenue,

Wind caressing my cool pale cheek completely,

All my happiness goes out to you.

Wind flapping aimlessly at my yellow window curtain,

Wind suddenly insisting on your way down to the sea,

Buoyant wind, sobbing wind, wind shuddering and plaintive,

Why come you from beyond through the night's blue mystery?

Wind of my dream, wind of the delicate beauty,

Wind strumming idly at the harp-strings of my heart:

Wind of the autumn—O melancholy beauty,

Touch me once—one instant—you and I shall never part!

Wind of the night, wind that has fallen silent,

Wind from the dark beyond crying suddenly, eerily,

What terrible news have you shrieked out there in the stillness?

The night is cool and quiet and the wind has crept to sea.

(4) THE WRECK

Grave: triste.

Its huge red prow

Uplifted in a tragic attitude,

It waits out there; the seas around

Bubble and hiss with moaning sound:

In sight of port at the gates of the sea,

It waits upreared expectantly.

It has known the joy of battle,

It has known the shock of wreck:

The spray coated its planking,

The sands swallow its deck:

Monument of the sea,

That knows and that forgets eternally.

It heaves its scarred brow towards the city:

The city pays it little heed:

Indifferent, brutal, without pity,

Stern cargo-steamers trudge and speed;

The sun glares on it and the gulls wheel and flash,

The rain beats on its deck, the winds pass silently;

It is out there alone with the immense sea:

Alone with its forgotten tragedy.

(5) TIDE OF STORMS

Allegro con fuoco.

Crooked, crawling tide with long wet fingers

Clutching at the gritty beach in the roar and spurt of spray,

Tide of gales, drunken tide, lava-burst of breakers,

Black ships plunge upon you from sea to sea away.

Shattering tide, tide of winds, tide of the long still winter,

What matter though ships fail, men sink, there vanish glory?

War-clouds shall hurl their stinging sleet upon our last adventure,

Night-winds shall brokenly whisper our bitter, tragic story.

PART IV. THE CALM

Largo.

In the morning I saw three great ships

Almost motionless

Becalmed on an infinite horizon.

The clatter of waves up the beach,

The grating rush of wet pebbles,

The loud monotonous song of the surf,

All these have soothed me

And have given

My soul to rest.

At noon I shall see waves flashing,

White power of spray.

The steamers, stately,

Kick up white puffs of spray behind them.

The boiling wake

Merges in the blue-black mirror of the sea.

One eye of the sun sees all:

The world, the wave, my heart.

I am content.

In the afternoon I shall dream a dream

Of islands beyond the horizon.

White clouds drift over the sky,

Frigates on a long voyage.

In the evening a mute blue stillness

Clutches at my heart.

Stars sparkle upon the tips of my fingers.

Mystical hush,

Fire in the darkness;

The breaking of dreams.

But in the morning I shall see three great

Almost motionless

Becalmed on an infinite horizon.

THE END

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK IRRADIATIONS; SAND AND SPRAY ***

Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will be renamed.

Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™ concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away—you may do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark license, especially commercial redistribution.

START: FULL LICENSE

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG™ LICENSE

PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK

To protect the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting the free distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work (or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project Gutenberg License available with this file or online at www.gutenberg.org/license.

Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg electronic works

1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property (trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg electronic works in your possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project Gutenberg electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.

1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg electronic works even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project Gutenberg electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below.

1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the Foundation” or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project Gutenberg electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the United States and you are located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project Gutenberg mission of promoting free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg name associated with the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg License when you share it without charge with others.

1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project Gutenberg work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any country other than the United States.

1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:

1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg License must appear prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg work (any work on which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, copied or distributed:

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg™ License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.

1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg electronic work is derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase “Project Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg electronic work is posted with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked to the Project Gutenberg License for all works posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work.

1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg.

1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project Gutenberg License.

1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg work in a format other than “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official version posted on the official Project Gutenberg website (www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.

1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg works unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing access to or distributing Project Gutenberg electronic works provided that:

- • You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from the use of Project Gutenberg works calculated using the method you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg trademark, but he has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in Section 4, “Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation.”

- • You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg™ License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg™ works.

- • You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of receipt of the work.

- • You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free distribution of Project Gutenberg™ works.

1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg™ electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark. Contact the Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below.

1.F.

1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project Gutenberg™ collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg™ electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain “Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by your equipment.

1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the “Right of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark, and any other party distributing a Project Gutenberg™ electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH DAMAGE.

1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further opportunities to fix the problem.

1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you ‘AS-IS’, WITH NO OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.

1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions.

1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone providing copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg work, and (c) any Defect you cause.

Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg

Project Gutenberg is synonymous with the free distribution of electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from people in all walks of life.

Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg’s goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg collection will remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure and permanent future for Project Gutenberg and future generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at www.gutenberg.org.

Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation

The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit 501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal Revenue Service. The Foundation’s EIN or federal tax identification number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state’s laws.

The Foundation’s business office is located at 41 Watchung Plaza #516, Montclair NJ 07042, USA, +1 (862) 621-9288. Email contact links and up to date contact information can be found at the Foundation’s website and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact

Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation

Project Gutenberg™ depends upon and cannot survive without widespread public support and donations to carry out its mission of increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations ($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt status with the IRS.

The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular state visit www.gutenberg.org/donate.

While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who approach us with offers to donate.

International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.

Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate.

Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg electronic works

Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project Gutenberg concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and distributed Project Gutenberg eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support.

Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.

Most people start at our website which has the main PG search facility: www.gutenberg.org.

This website includes information about Project Gutenberg, including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.

Table of Contents

IRRADIATIONS SAND AND SPRAY

JOHN GOULD FLETCHER

TO AMY LOWELL BEST OF FRIENDS AND POETS

PREFACE

IRRADIATIONS

SAND AND SPRAY

A SEA-SYMPHONY

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG™ LICENSE