Tread softly, for here you stand On miracle ground, boy.

On Ithaca Standing 

by Lawrence Durrell

Tread softly, for here you stand

On miracle ground, boy.

A breath would cloud this water of glass,

Honey, bush, berry and swallow.

This rock, then, is more pastoral than

Arcadia is, Illyria was.

Here the cold spring lilts on sand.

The temperature of the toad

Swallowing under a stone whispers: "Diamonds,

Boy, diamonds, and juice of minerals!"

Be a saint here, dig for foxes and water,

Mere water springs in the bones of the hands.

Turn from the hearth of the hero. Think:

Other men have their problems, I this:

The heart’s dark anvil and the crucifix

Are one, have hammered and shall hammer

A nail of flesh, me to an island cross,

Where the kestrel’s arrow falls only,

The green sea licks.