The Atlantic is a stormy moat; and the Mediterranean,
the blue pool in the old garden, More than five thousand years
has drunk sacrifice Of ships and blood,
and shines in the sun; but here the Pacific—
our ships, planes, wars are perfectly irrelevant.
Neither are present blood-feud with the brave dwarfs
Nor any future world-quarrel of westering And eastering man, the bloody migrations,
greed of power, clash of faiths— Is a speck of dust on the great scale-pan. Here from this mountain shore,
headland beyond stormy headland plunging like dolphins
through the blue sea-smoke Into pale sea— look west at the hill of water: it is half the planet: this dome,
this half-globe, this bulging Eyeball of water, arched over Asia,
Australia and white Antarctica: those are the eyelids that never close; this is the staring unsleeping Eye of the earth; and what it watches is not our wars.