Epigraph

Why are you weeping,
Naïa?
Through the still noon—
Why are you weeping?

Because I found no wind, no sea,
No white surf leaping,
Nor any flying moon to comfort me
Upon the dune.

———

What did you see there,
Naïa?
In the still noon—
What did you see there?

Only the parched world drowsed in drought,
And a fat bee, there,
Prying and probing at a poppy’s mouth
That drooped a-swoon.

———

What did you hear there,
Naïa?
In the still noon—
What did you hear there?

Only a kestrel’s lonely cry
From the wood near there—
A rustle in the wheat as I passed by—
A cricket’s rune.

———

Who led you homeward,
Naïa?
Through the still noon—
Who led you homeward?

My soul within me sought the sea,
Leading me foam-ward:
But the lost moon’s ghost returned with me
Through the high noon.

———

Where is your soul then,
Naïa?
Lost at high noon—
Where is your soul then?

It wanders East—or West—I think—
Or near the Pole, then—
Or died—perhaps there on the dune’s dry brink
Seeking the moon.