I ride upon a crest exultantly!
In this triumphal perilous poise upon
The high white foam peak of my ecstasy
I banish memories of long leagues that shone
Palely beneath a tranquil sky, their deeps
Serenely undisturbed. They are behind.
Behind! I laugh derisively. It keeps
My shrilling voice tuned to a shrilling wind.
On, on O frail yet thundering steed, nor cease
Your mad and swirling rush, although I know
That, blent with low monotonous murmurings
Of waters past, now sobbing without peace
In dirge for us, we too shall crash and go
Back to those calms as helpless, shattered things.
June Saunders, 1938