Sara Teasdale: Nahant


Bowed as an elm under the weight of its beauty, So earth is bowed, under her weight of splendor, Molten sea, richness of leaves and the burnished  Bronze of sea-grasses.
Clefts in the cliff shelter the purple sand-peas And chicory flowers bluer than the ocean Flinging its foam high, white fire in sunshine,  Jewels of water.
Joyous thunder of blown waves on the ledges, Make me forget war and the dark war-sorrow — Against the sky a sentry paces the sea-cliff  Slim in his khaki.