They drank the bitter, salt wine of the sea,
They breathed up drowning bubbles from below
While we sat in the storm's red after-glow
Discussing Art and Love - sipping tea.
I was a poet, he, an artist; she,
A famous actress . . . lightly to and fro
We shuttled epigrams as salesmen show
Rich silks that change in colors momently.
And while the fishers clung to planks and spars
And rode the huge backs of waves, we sat
Beneath a young night full of summer stars:
And we discussed of life this way and that
Until we felt, when we arose for bed,
That there was nothing left had not been said.
