The ocean has its silent caves,
Deep, quiet and alone;
Though there be fury on the waves,
Beneath them there is none.
The awful spirits of the deep
Hold their communion there;
And there are those for whom we weep,
The young, the bright, the fair.
Calmly the wearied seamen rest
Beneath their own blue sea.
The ocean solitudes are blest,
For there is purity.
The earth has guilt, the earth has care,
Unquiet are its graves;
But peaceful sleep is ever there,
Beneath the dark blue waves.
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The Ocean
Well, this rhymes nicely enough, but NH's igorance of conditions beneath the sea's surface was clearly so profound that his romanticising about the sea lacks all seaworthiness. The only poem of comparable ignorance and absurdity by a famous author that I can think of is one in which D.H. Lawrence refers to a hammerhead shark as a type of whale. I can't immediately remember the title of that. -
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