Robinson Jeffers

November Surf

Some lucky day each November great waves awake and are
Like smoking mountains bright from the west
And come and cover the cliff with white violent cleanness: then
The old granite forgets half a year's filth:
The orange-peel, eggshells, papers, pieces of clothing, the clots
Of dung in corners of the rock, and used
Sheaths that make light love safe in the evenings: all the droppings
     of the summer
Idlers washed off in a winter ecstasy:
I think this cumbered continent envies its cliff then. . . . But all
The earth, in her childlike prophetic sleep,
Keeps dreaming of the bath of a storm that prepares up the long
Of the future to scour more than her sea-lines:
The cities gone down, the people fewer and the hawks more
The rivers mouth to source pure; when the two-footed
Mammal, being someways one of the nobler animals, regains
The dignity of room, the value of rareness.