At the seaside:
All the coast`s in the foam of the tumbling tide,
And rustling pines at the waterside rise.
At twilight the sea is no longer blue,
But multihued, like the sunset skies.
All colors imaginable in the world,
All the tints of the earth and sky
On billows raised by the sturdy gale,
Flamboyant, like rainbows lie.
Everything tosses and sways and swells,
To the bottom dives gamboling flame.
The heavens change and the waters as well,
In color becoming the same.
Impossible everything seemed till now,
and here - no end, no limit, no bound!
"Why am I no poet ?" the painter said,
"Oh, to master the brush!"
sighed the poet aloud.
But the sea - just for spite - raised a din and noise
In all its might and its grace,
And made one think of the ocean wide,
Of the Universe, stretched through space.
And only fishermen watched with frowns
The top of each billow towering grand.
They would set off again to catch fish at dawn.
Not just to admire its beauty from land,
But once more to face it alone.
The morning fog may chill the air...
I don`t care !
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