22 poems about the sea by great authors

This is the land that the sunset bathes,
those are the shores of the Yellow Sea;
where it rose, or where it rushes,
These are the mysteries of the West!
Night after night its scarlet traffic
spread that splashdown with opal bullets;
merchants sway on the horizon,
They sink, and disappear with their magical sails.

Oh captain! My captain!
Our terrible journey is over;
The ship has overcome all obstacles, the prize we were looking for is won;
The port is close, I hear the bells, the people are all exultant,
while the eyes follow the firm keel, the dark and bold ship:
But oh heart! Heart! Heart!
Oh the bleeding red drops!
Look, my captain on deck,
He lies dead and cold!

The sea is
the Lucifer of blue.
The fallen sky
for wanting to be the light.
Poor damned sea
to eternal movement,
having previously been
still in the firmament!
But of your bitterness
love redeemed you.
You paid pure Venus,
and your depth remained
virgin and painless.
Your sadnesses are beautiful,
sea ​​of ​​glorious spasms.
But today instead of stars
you have greenish octopuses.
Hold on to your suffering,
formidable Satan.
Christ walked for you,
but so did Pan.

I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and to the sky,
and all I ask is a tall ship and a star to guide it;
and the kick of the rudder and the song of the wind and the trembling of the white sail,
and a gray mist on the surface of the sea and a gray dawn breaking.

The sea. The sea.
The sea. Only the sea!
Why did you bring me, father,
to the city?
Why did you dig me up
from sea?
In dreams the swell
It pulls my heart;
I would like to take it.
Father, why did you bring me
here?
Moaning to see the sea,
a little sailor on land
raise this lament into the air:
Oh my sailor blouse;
the wind always inflated it
when you see the breakwater!

Twilight and evening bell,
and then the darkness!
And let there be no sadness in the farewell
when boarding;
because although outside our limit of time and place
The flood can carry me away,
I hope to see my pilot face to face
when you have crossed the bar.

Before sleep (or terror) wove
mythologies and cosmogonies,
Before time was coined into days,
The sea, the always sea, was already and was.
Who is the sea? Who is that violent one
and ancient being that gnaws at the pillars
of the earth and it is one and many seas
and abyss and brightness and chance and wind?
Whoever looks at it sees it for the first time,
always. With the amazement that things
elementals leave, the beautiful
afternoons, the moon, the fire of a bonfire.
Who is the sea, who am I? I will know the day
later that follows agony.

Eternal sea breezes,
night sea wind:
You don’t come for anyone;
If someone woke up,
he must be prepared
to survive you.
Eternal sea breezes,
that seems to blow alone
the ancient rocks blown up,
you are the purest space
coming from afar…
Oh, how to bear fruit!
The fig tree senses your arrival.
high in the moonlight.

The Ocean has its silent caves,
deep, calm and alone;
Although there is fury on the waves,
Below them there are none.
The terrible spirits of the depths
They celebrate their communion there;
and there are those for whom we cry,
the young, the brilliant, the just.
Peacefully the weary sailors rest
Beneath your own blue sea.
The solitudes of the ocean are blessed,
because there is purity.
The earth is to blame, the earth is careful,
their graves are restless;
but peaceful sleep is always there,
Beneath the dark blue waves.

If it is not the sea, it is its image,
his image, returned, in the sky.
If it is not the sea, it is its voice
slim,
across the wide world,
on speaker, in the air.
If it is not the sea, it is its name
in a language without lips,
without a town,
without more words than this:
sea.
If it’s not the sea, it’s your idea
of fire, unfathomable, clean;
me too,
burning, drowning in it.

I return to you, sea, to the strong flavor
of the salt that the wind brings to my mouth,
to your clarity, to this luck
that it was given to me to forget death
even knowing that life is short.
I return to you, sea, lying body,
to your power of peace and storm,
to your cry of a chained god,
of feminine earth surrounded,
captive of freedom itself.
I return to you, sea, as who knows
Take advantage of your lesson.
And before my life runs out,
of all the water that fits on earth,
In a twisted will, I will arm my chest.

I need the sea because it teaches me:
I don’t know if I learn music or consciousness:
I don’t know if it’s just a wave or being deep
or just hoarse voice or dazzling
assumption of fish and ships.
The fact is that even when I’m asleep
somehow magnetic circle
at the university of the waves.
It’s not just the crushed shells
as if some trembling planet
gradual death will participate,
no, from the fragment I reconstruct the day,
from a streak of salt the stalactite
and from a spoonful the immense god.
What once taught me I keep it. It’s air,
incessant wind, water and sand.
It seems little for the young man
that came to live here with its fires,
and yet the pulse that rose
and went down into his abyss,
the cold of the blue that crackled,
the collapse of the star,
the tender unfolding of the wave
wasting snow with foam,
the power still, there, determined
like a stone throne in the deep,
replaced the enclosure in which they grew
stubborn sadness, piling up oblivion,
and abruptly changed my existence:
I gave my support to pure movement.

Early in the day it was whispered that we should sail in a boat,
Only you and me, and never a soul in the world would know about this of ours
pilgrimage to no country and without end.
In that ocean without shores,
Before your smile that listens silently my songs would swell into melodies,
free as the waves, free from all slavery of words.
Hasn’t the time come yet?
Are there still works to be done?
Behold, the evening has reached the shore
and in the darkness the seabirds fly to their nests.
Who knows when the chains will come off?
and the ship, like the last glow of the evening,
Will it disappear into the night?

The tide is full, the moon is fair
over the straits; on the French coast the light
shines and goes; The cliffs of England rise,
sparkling and vast, in the quiet bay.
Come to the window, sweet is the night air!
alone, from the long line of spray
where the sea meets the moon-bleached land.
Hear! You hear the screeching roar
of pebbles that the waves remove and throw,
On his return, along the high shore,
It starts, stops and then starts again,
with slow tremulous cadence, and brings
the eternal note of sadness.
Sophocles long ago
I heard it in the Aegean and it brought me
in his mind the murky ebb and flow
of human misery; us
also finds a thought in the sound,
listening to it in this distant northern sea.

At the sea’s shore. She had
a house, my dream,
At the sea’s shore
High bows. for free
water roads, the slender
boat that I guided.
They knew the eyes
rest and order
of a small homeland.
I need to tell you
how scary the rain is
in the crystals.
Today it falls on my house
the dark night.
The black rocks
They draw me to the shipwreck.
Prisoner of the song,
my useless effort,
Who guides me towards the dawn?
Next to the sea I had
a house, my dream.