On the orchard of the sea, far out are whitecaps,

Water that answers questions no one has asked,

Silent speakers of the grave’s rejoinders;

Having accomplished nothing, I am travelling somewhere else;

O deep green sea, it is not for you

This smoking body ploughs toward death;

It is not for the strange blossoms of the sea

I drag my thin legs across the Chesapeake Bay;

Though perhaps by your motions the body heals;

For though on its road the body cannot march

With golden trumpets—it must march—

And the sea gives up its answer as it falls into itself.