Maine Community Comms Colab

Ragged Island

Edna St. Vincent Millay

There, there where those black spruces crowd

To the edge of the precipitous cliff,

Above your boat, under the eastern wall of the island;

And no wave breaks; as if

All had been done, and long ago, that needed

Doing; and the cold tide, unimpeded

By shoal or shelving ledge, moves up and down,

Instead of in and out;

And there is no driftwood there, because there is no beach;

Clean cliff going down as deep as clear water can reach;

No driftwood, such as abounds on the roaring shingle,

To be hefted home, for fires in the kitchen stove;

Barrels, banged ashore about the boiling outer harbor;

Lobster-buoys, on the eel-grass of the sheltered cove:

There, thought unbraids itself, and the mind becomes single.

There you row with tranquil oars, and the ocean

Shows no scar from the cutting of your placid keel;

Care becomes senseless there; pride and promotion

Remote; you only look; you scarcely feel.

Even adventure, with its vital uses,

Is aimless ardour now; and thrift is waste.

Oh, to be there, under the silent spruces,

Where the wide, quiet evening darkens without haste

Over a sea with death acquainted, yet forever chaste.

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