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Updated: May 24, 2025
Not even the searching wind could mar the ecstasy of that plunge down to smooth, seductive sand, where I buried greedy fingers and looked through a medium blue, with that translucent blue, fairy-faint and angel-pure, that you see in perfection only in the heart of ice.
The mangroves stride In the coloured tide, With leafy crests that will soon be isles; And all is lonely White sea-sand only, Angel-pure for untrodden miles. In sunny bays The young shark plays, Among the ripples and nets of light; And the conch-shell crawls Through the glimmering halls The coral builds for the Infinite.
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