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Promise Of Peace

The heads of strong old age are beautiful

Beyond all grace of youth. They have strange quiet,

Integrity, health, soundness, to the full

They've dealt with life and been tempered by it.

A young man must not sleep; his years are war,

Civil and foreign but the former's worse;

But the old can breathe in safety now that they are

Forgetting what youth meant, the being perverse,

by Robinson Jeffers

The Silent Shepherds

What's the best life for a man?

—Never to have been born, sings the choros, and the next best

Is to die young. I saw the Sybil at Cumae

Hung in her cage over the public street—

What do you want, Sybil? I want to die.

Apothanein Thelo. Apothanein Thelo. Apothanein Thelo.

You have got your wish. But I meant life, not death.

What's the best life for a man? To ride in the wind. To ride

by Robinson Jeffers

Time Of Disturbance

The best is, in war or faction or ordinary vindictive

life, not to take sides.

Leave it for children, and the emotional rabble of the

streets, to back their horse or support a brawler.

But if you are forced into it: remember that good and

evil are as common as air, and like air shared

By the panting belligerents; the moral indignation that

hoarsens orators is mostly a fool.

by Robinson Jeffers

The Summit Redwood

Only stand high a long enough time your lightning

will come; that is what blunts the peaks of

redwoods;

But this old tower of life on the hilltop has taken

it more than twice a century, this knows in

every

Cell the salty and the burning taste, the shudder

and the voice.

by Robinson Jeffers

The Maid's Thought

Why listen, even the water is sobbing for something.

The west wind is dead, the waves

Forget to hate the cliff, in the upland canyons

Whole hillsides burst aglow

With golden broom. Dear how it rained last month,

And every pool was rimmed

With sulphury pollen dust of the wakening pines.

Now tall and slender suddenly

by Robinson Jeffers

To A Young Artist

It is good for strength not to be merciful

To its own weakness, good for the deep urn to run

over, good to explore

The peaks and the deeps, who can endure it,

Good to be hurt, who can be healed afterward: but

you that have whetted consciousness

Too bitter an edge, too keenly daring,

So that the color of a leaf can make you tremble

by Robinson Jeffers

The Stars Go Over The Lonely Ocean

Unhappy about some far off things

That are not my affair, wandering

Along the coast and up the lean ridges,

I saw in the evening

The stars go over the lonely ocean,

And a black-maned wild boar

Plowing with his snout on Mal Paso Mountain.

The old monster snuffled, "Here are sweet roots,

by Robinson Jeffers

The Broken Balance

I. Reference to a Passage in Plutarch's Life of Sulla

The people buying and selling, consuming pleasures, talking in the archways,

Were all suddenly struck quiet

And ran from under stone to look up at the sky: so shrill and mournful,

So fierce and final, a brazen

Pealing of trumpets high up in the air, in the summer blue over Tuscany.

They marvelled; the soothsayers answered:

"Although the Gods are little troubled toward men, at the end of each period

by Robinson Jeffers

Fawn's Foster-Mother

The old woman sits on a bench before the door and quarrels

With her meagre pale demoralized daughter.

Once when I passed I found her alone, laughing in the sun

And saying that when she was first married

She lived in the old farmhouse up Garapatas Canyon.

(It is empty now, the roof has fallen

But the log walls hang on the stone foundation; the redwoods

Have all been cut down, the oaks are standing;

by Robinson Jeffers

Divinely Superfluous Beauty

The storm-dances of gulls, the barking game of seals,

Over and under the ocean…

Divinely superfluous beauty

Rules the games, presides over destinies, makes trees grow

And hills tower, waves fall.

The incredible beauty of joy

Stars with fire the joining of lips, O let our loves too

Be joined, there is not a maiden

by Robinson Jeffers

Bixby's Landing

They burned lime on the hill and dropped it down

here in an iron car

On a long cable; here the ships warped in

And took their loads from the engine, the water

is deep to the cliff. The car

Hangs half way over in the gape of the gorge,

Stationed like a north star above the peaks of

the redwoods, iron perch

by Robinson Jeffers

The Eye

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

by Robinson Jeffers