The Sunken City
Clark Ashton SmithAbove its domes the gulfs accumulate. Far up, the sea-gales blare their bitter screed: But here the buried waters take no heed— Deaf, and with welded lips pressed down by weight Of the upper ocean. Dim, interminate, In cities over-webbed with somber weed, Where galleons crumble and the krakens breed, The slow tide coils through sunken court and gate. From out the ocean’s phosphor-starry dome, A ghostly light is dubitably shed On altars of a goddess garlanded With blossoms of some weird and hueless vine; And, wingéd, fleet, through skies beneath the foam, Like silent birds the sea-things dart and shine.
A Petrarchan sonnet — the octave is all pressure, weight, and sealed silence. The buried waters are deaf, and with welded lips — not just still but sealed shut, like a tomb. Then the sestet opens into something almost beautiful. Phosphorescent light filtering down, a goddess still garlanded on her altar, sea-creatures darting like silent birds. The sunken city is a ruin — and it has also developed its own beauty, its own worship, its own quiet life. It doesn’t need the surface.