I In the purple light, heavy with redwood, the slopes drop seaward, Headlong convexities of forest, drawn in together to the steep ravine. Below, on the sea-cliff, A lonely clearing; a little field of corn by the streamside; a roof under spared trees. Then the ocean Like a great stone someone has cut to a sharp edge and polished to shining. Beyond it, the fountain And furnace of incredible light flowing up from the sunk sun. In the little clearing a woman Is punishing a horse; she had tied the halter to a sapling at the edge of the wood, but when the great whip Clung to the flanks the creature kicked so hard she feared he would snap the halter; she called from the house The young man her son; who fetched a chain tie-rope, they working together Noosed the small rusty links round the horse's tongue And tied him by the swollen tongue to the tree. Seen from this height they are shrunk to insect size. Out of all human relation. You cannot distinguish The blood dripping from where the chain is fastened, The beast shuddering; but the thrust neck and the legs Far apart. You can see the whip fall on the flanks . . . The gesture of the arm. You cannot see the face of the woman. The enormous light beats up out of the west across the cloud-bars of the trade-wind. The ocean Darkens, the high clouds brighten, the hills darken together. Unbridled and unbelievable beauty Covers the evening world . . . not covers, grows apparent out of it, as Venus down there grows out From the lit sky. What said the prophet? 'I create good: and I create evil: I am the Lord.' II This coast crying out for tragedy like all beautiful places, (The quiet ones ask for quieter suffering: but here the granite cliff the gaunt cypresses crown Demands what victim? The dykes of red lava and black what Titan? The hills like pointed flames Beyond Soberanes, the terrible peaks of the bare hills under the sun, what immolation? ) This coast crying out for tragedy like all beautiful places: and like the passionate spirit of humanity Pain for its bread: God's, many victims', the painful deaths, the horrible transfigurements: I said in my heart, 'Better invent than suffer: imagine victims Lest your own flesh be chosen the agonist, or you Martyr some creature to the beauty of the place.' And I said, 'Burn sacrifices once a year to magic Horror away from the house, this little house here You have built over the ocean with your own hands Beside the standing boulders: for what are we, The beast that walks upright, with speaking lips And little hair, to think we should always be fed, Sheltered, intact, and self-controlled? We sooner more liable Than the other animals. Pain and terror, the insanities of desire; not accidents but essential, And crowd up from the core:' I imagined victims for those wolves, I made them phantoms to follow, They have hunted the phantoms and missed the house. It is not good to forget over what gulfs the spirit Of the beauty of humanity, the petal of a lost flower blown seaward by the night-wind, floats to its quietness. III Boulders blunted like an old bear's teeth break up from the headland; below them All the soil is thick with shells, the tide-rock feasts of a dead people. Here the granite flanks are scarred with ancient fire, the ghosts of the tribe Crouch in the nights beside the ghost of a fire, they try to remember the sunlight, Light has died out of their skies. These have paid something for the future Luck of the country, while we living keep old griefs in memory: though God's Envy is not a likely fountain of ruin, to forget evils calls down Sudden reminders from the cloud: remembered deaths be our redeemers; Imagined victims our salvation: white as the half moon at midnight Someone flamelike passed me, saying, 'I am Tamar Cauldwell, I have my desire,' Then the voice of the sea returned, when she had gone by, the stars to their towers. . . . Beautiful country burn again, Point Pinos down to the Sur Rivers Burn as before with bitter wonders, land and ocean and the Carmel water. IV He brays humanity in a mortar to bring the savor From the bruised root: a man having bad dreams, who invents victims, is only the ape of that God. He washes it out with tears and many waters, calcines it with fire in the red crucible, Deforms it, makes it horrible to itself: the spirit flies out and stands naked, he sees the spirit, He takes it in the naked ecstasy; it breaks in his hand, the atom is broken, the power that massed it Cries to the power that moves the stars, 'I have come home to myself, behold me. I bruised myself in the flint mortar and burnt me In the red shell, I tortured myself, I flew forth, Stood naked of myself and broke me in fragments, And here am I moving the stars that are me.' I have seen these ways of God: I know of no reason For fire and change and torture and the old returnings. He being sufficient might be still. I think they admit no reason; they are the ways of my love. Unmeasured power, incredible passion, enormous craft: no thought apparent but burns darkly Smothered with its own smoke in the human brain-vault: no thought outside: a certain measure in phenomena: The fountains of the boiling stars, the flowers on the foreland, the ever-returning roses of dawn.