The Atlantic is a stormy moat; and the Mediterranean,
The blue pool in the old garden,
More than five thousand years has drunk sacrifice
Of ships and blood, and shines in the sun; but here the Pacific —
Our ships, planes, wars are perfectly irrelevant.
Neither our present blood-feud with the brave dwarfs
Nor any future world-quarrel of westering
And eastering man, the bloody migrations, greed of power, clash of
Is a speck of dust on the great scale-pan.
Here from this mountain shore, headland beyond stormy headland
plunging like dolphins through the blue sea-smoke
Into pale sea — look west at the hill of water: it is half the planet:
this dome, this half-globe, this bulging
Eyeball of water, arched over to Asia,
Australia and white Antarctica: those are the eyelids that never close;
this is the staring unsleeping
Eye of the earth; and what it watches is not our wars.
This poem is included in the following anthologies:
The Oxford Book of American Verse, 1950; ed. F.O. Matthiessen
The Pocket Book of Modern Verse, 11th Printing, 1963; ed. Oscar Williams.
Robinson Jeffers: Selected Poems, Vintage Books, 1965.
The Norton Anthology of Modern Poetry, Second Edition; eds. Ellman & O’Clair
The New Oxford Book of American Verse, 1976; ed. Richard Ellman
The Selected Poetry of Robinson Jeffers, Stanford, 2001; ed. Tim Hunt.
The Wild God of the World: An Anthology of Robinson Jeffers, 2003; ed. Albert Gelpi.