A Memory

I remember
The crackle of the palm trees
Over the mooned white roofs of the town...
The shining town...
And the tender fumbling of the surf
On the sulphur-yellow beaches
As we sat...a little apart...in the close-pressing night.
The moon hung above us like a golden mango,
And the moist air clung to our faces,
Warm and fragrant as the open mouth of a child
And we watched the out-flung sea
Rolling to the purple edge of the world,
Yet ever back upon itself...
As we...
Inadequate night...
And mooned white memory
Of a tropic sea...
How softly it comes up
Like an ungathered lily.
A Memory

by Lola Ridge, 1918
