Robinson Jeffers Poems

True, the time, to one who does not love farce,
And if misery must be prefers it nobler, shows apparent vices;
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The old voice of the ocean, the bird-chatter of little rivers,
(Winter has given them gold for silver
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I chose the bed downstairs by the sea-window for a good death-bed
When we built the house, it is ready waiting,
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The storm-dances of gulls, the barking game of seals,
Over and under the ocean…
Divinely superfluous beauty
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Inside a cave in a narrow canyon near Tassajara
The vault of rock is painted with hands,
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Hope is not for the wise, fear is for fools;
Change and the world, we think, are racing to a fall,
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Spirits and illusions have died,
The naked mind lives
In the beauty of inanimate things.
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These grand and fatal movements toward death: the grandeur
of the mass
Makes pity a fool, the tearing pity
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Man, introverted man, having crossed
In passage and but a little with the nature of things this latter
century
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That sculptor we knew, the passionate-eyed son of a quarryman,
Who astonished Rome and Paris in his meteor youth, and then
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