A range of clouds banked up behind the peak
Of that apocryphal
Blue mountain, with a wide, oblique
Burst of late sun
Projecting at the east’s receding wall
A film of what the day so far has done:
A wind that tries to scrape
The breaking waves up as they run
Across the bay
And shatter at the foot of Fluted Cape
In tern and gannet-printed veils of spray;
And trees the wind has caught,
Which seem too self-contained to sway
When they are blown,
And only move as a pleasing afterthought.
No one. No human presence has been known,
Surely, to venture here.
It takes one blackbird to disown
And, whistling just a few feet from his ear,
To call him back again and make him be
The subject in this scene,
The one who is required to see.
No blackbird with its song will intervene.
The spray will hang its veils and the trees sway.