the storm

this level reach of blue is not my sea;

here are sweet waters, pretty in the sun,

whose quiet ripples meet obediently

a marked and measured line, one after one.

this is no sea of mine. that humbly laves

untroubled sands, spread glittering and warm.

i have a need of wilder, crueler waves;

they sicken of the calm, who knew the storm.

so let a love beat over me again,

loosing its million desperate breakers wide;

sudden and terrible to rise and wane;

roaring the heavens apart; a reckless tide

that casts upon the heart, as it recedes,

splinters and spars and dripping, salty weeds.

- dorothy parker, sunset gun: poems