High Falcon & Other Poems/The Figurehead

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THE FIGUREHEAD
This that is washed with weed and pebblestoneCurved once a dolphin's length before the prow,And I who read the land to which we boreIn its grave eyes, question my idol now,What cold and marvelous fancy it may keep,Since the salt terror swept us from our course,Or if a wisdom later than the storm,For old green ocean's tinctured it so deep;And with some reason to me on this strandThe waves, the ceremonial waves have comeAnd stooped their barbaric heads, and all spread outTheir lovely arms before them, and are gone,Leaving their murderous tribute on the sand.
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