I leaned on the turf
I looked at a rock
Left dry by the surf;
For the turf, to call it grass were to mock:
Dead to the roots, so deep was done
The work of the summer sun

And the rock lay flat
As an anvil’s face:
No iron like that!
Baked dry; of a shell, of a weed no trace:
Sunshine outside, but ice at the core
Death’s altar by the lone shore

On the turf, sprang gay
With his films of blue
No cricket, I’ll say
But a warhorse, barded and chanfroned too
The gift of a quixote-mage to his knight
Real fairy, with wings all right

On the rock, they scorch
Likе a drop of fire
From a brandished torch
Fall two red fans of a buttеrfly:
No turf, no rock: in their ugly stead
See, wonderful blue and red!
Is it not so
With the minds of men?
The level and low
The burnt and bare, in themselves; but then
With such a blue and red grace, not theirs
Love settling unawares!