GRGR(5) A walk along the beach (pp. 86-92)

[Terrance F. Flaherty]

Out on the end of Long Island is Montauk Point. Mick Jagger and
Dick Cavett (sp? the talk show guy) have homes on the small
cliffs. It is very rocky. I used to sleep out there under the
stars and listen to the grating of the peplos and stones. And I
would recite Dover Beach and think how sad to lose one's
certitude. As long as as those waves continue to bring those sad
notes to the shore, I will not lose mine.

Terrance

rj wrote:

> Dover Beach
>
> The sea is calm tonight.
> The tide is full, the moon lies fair
> Upon the straights; on the French Coast the light
> Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand,
> Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.
> Come to the window, sweet is the night-air!
> Only, from the long line of spray
> Where the sea meets the moon-blanch'd land,
> Listen! you hear the grating roar
> Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling,
> At their return, up the high strand,
> Begin, and cease, and then again begin,
> With tremulous cadences slow, and bring
> The eternal note of sadness in.
>
> Sophocles long ago
> Heard it on the Aegean, and it brought
> Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow,
> Of human misery; we
> Find also in the sound a thought,
> hearing it by this distant northern sea.
>
> The Sea of Faith
> Was once, too, at the full, and round earth's shore
> Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furl'd;
> But now I only hear
> Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,
> Retreating, to the breath,
> Of the night wind, down the vast edges drear
> And naked shingles of the world.
>
> Ah, love, let us be true
> To one another! for the world, which seems
> To lie before us like a land of dreams
> So various, so beautiful, so new,
> Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,
> Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain.
> And here we are as on a darkling plain
> Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,
> Where ignorant armies clash by night.
>
>                                       - Matthew Arnold, 1867