by Rachel Grey

Searching and searching in the lessening gale
The falcon finally hears the falconer.
Things fall in place; the center sets and holds;
A gentle morning dawns across the world,
The sun-warmed tide is high, and everywhere
The ease of graceful wisdom is at hand;
The worst lack all direction, while the best
are filled with passionate vitality.

Surely some dissolution is at hand;
Surely a great regression is at hand.
A great regression! Hardly I have this doubt
When a small vision out of human myth
Delights my mind: somewhere in foam of the sea
A shape with piscene body and the head of a girl,
A gaze full and passionate as the moon,
Is moving her quick tail, while all about her
Dart shadows of the indulgent ocean fish.
The light comes on again, but now I know
That twenty centuries of liquid sleep
Were brought to comfort by a rocking cradle,
And what sleek god, her hour come round at last,
Dances towards Atlantis to be born?

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