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If we could see them: the beautiful passionate bodies of With oxygen and salted water the would look They have little to do with ours they have nothing to do Then, yellow dawnĬolors the south, I think about the rapid and furious lives in That life near kin to human, intelligent, hot-blooded, idle Sharp flippers lifted, or great-eyed heads, as they rollīigger than draft-horses, and barking like dogs In the slow swell between the rock and the cliff, Occasionally, he does.Īt dawn a knot of sea-lions lies off the shore I always wish that Jeffers would stop writing poems about how nature is more worthy of attention than humans, and write some poems about nature.

"Ascent To The Sierras" is a fine poem, though I think the Spaniards might protest that they were a perfectly good primal sorrow, and count as part of the terrain by now.

To make you bitter music how else will you take bonds The tribes before them were acorn-eaters, harmless The curse was lifted the highlands have kept peace That sow the dark flat land with terrible rubies. Standing above these rock-heads to bark laughterĪt the burning granaries and the farms and the town Their scared booty to the highlands, the tossing hornsĪnd glazed eyes in the light of torches. To raid the plain and at moonrise returning driven Have gathered among these rocks at the dead hour Men with harsh mouths and eyes like the eagles' hunger, The fierce clans of the mountain you'd think for The farms are finished the sudden foot of the Beyond the great valley an odd instinctive risingīegins to possess the ground, the flatness gathersĪ sudden violence of rock crowns them.