The world has many seas, Mediterranean, Atlantic, but
here is the shore of the one ocean.
And here the heavy future hangs like a cloud; the
enormous scene; the enormous games preparing
Weigh on the water and strain the rock; the stage is here,
the play is conceived; the players are not found.
I saw on the Sierras, up the Kaweah valley above the
Moro rock, the mountain redwoods
Like red towers on the slopes of snow; about their bases
grew a bushy of Christmas green,
Firs and pines to be monuments for pilgrimage
In Europe; I remembered the Swiss forests, the dark robes
of Pilatus, no trunk like these there;
But these are underwood; they are only a shrubbery
about the boles of the trees
Our people are clever and masterful;
They have powers in the mass, they accomplish marvels.
It is possible Time will make them before it a annuls
them, but at present
There is not one memorable person, there is not one mind
to stand with the trees, one life with the mountains.
From Cawdor and other poems (Horace Liveright, Inc., 1928) by Robinson Jeffers. Copyright © Robinson Jeffers. This poem is in the public domain.