Westward of Carrick Roads the morning haze
Marries all open sea to open heaven;
Sweet waters, like a carpet of calm days,
Lie stretched below me—and still only seven!
The day not started—two hours more to dream
And gaze and hear them say one soft, bright air,
The sea-girt fields, the sea-gull’s far-off scream:
“We are the morning, brother, we are fair!”
Yes, you are fair! O world of woes untold,
Untellable, hold fast! appall, appall!
Life is the art of wisely growing old . . .
All I have felt, thought, said . . . and, after all,
O heart, still, still the same untutored boy!
O Christ, walk thou the waves of this mad joy!