The Lie

Some bloodied sea-bird’s hovering decay Assails us where we lie, and lie To make that symbol go away, To mock the true north of the eye. But lie to me, lie next to me; The world is an infirmity. Too much of sun’s been said, too much Of sea, and of the lover’s touch, Whole volumes that old men debauch. But we, at the sea’s edge curled, Hurl back their bloody world. Lie to me, like next to me, For there is nothing here to see But the mirrors of ourselves, the day, Clear with the odors of the sea. Lie to me. And lie to me.