Dover Beach Revisited
by Edward Compton, SoF UK
Arnold! The Sea of Faith Is ebbing still. Now, as then, Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar Bemoans, to disillusioned ears, the death Of God: its waters brackish, muddied By slow erosion of the trampled shore, Its currents crossed, muddled By moles and groynes misplaced by men.
Experience, not faith, reveals That in its own good time The tide will turn, Facing about, as one reborn, Flowing again from blessed isles Which purge and purify: returning home As pilgrims, shriven at some distant shrine, Dance on their way, unburdened and serene.
Yes, Arnold, your night was drear. You did not see— Because backsliding pebbles sounded harsh You could not hear— The nascent counter-surge, which we Detect when tempests hush At dawn—when noise Gives way to wavelets' still small voice.
The ebb tide was a scavenger Washing away cast-iron certainties Worn rusty, holed and cracked. The coast grows clear. A whispering messenger, The shoreward backwash, tells Of distant mysteries Won from forgotten Nerieds' cells And salvaged from our long neglect.
Now we may understand How little we can comprehend; Loosening the threadbare blindfold called Belief, May see with awe and reverence The unaccountable advance Of waves across the thirsty sand—find life In salty pools bewildered bright, Beneath the dazzling miracle of light.