The Sea is a continuous story. Stretched; you would almost say that it was the margin Of existence. Wave after wave; you would say That it was only the margin.

The gray, continuing roll. You would say it was only a margin, And the wave, the recurring margin, Would close in, and there would be a minute.

The Sea is a gray story, rolling, Stretched, the edge of the tide, returning. Which goes; each wave returning Would follow the shore, roll again upon the shore.

The gray receding edge of it, Continuous, was the story; the edge Of existence, the march, and every tide returning Would lay the light returning to the edge. Will you not go out upon it? Will you not follow? Will you not return to it?

• Ezra Pound