SEAWEED. WHEN descends on the Atlantic Storm-wind of the equinox, Landward in his wrath he scourges Laden with seaweed from the rocks: From Bermuda's reefs; from edges Surges of San Salvador; From the tumbling surf, that buries On the desolate, rainy seas;— Ever drifting, drifting, drifting Currents of the restless main; All have found repose again. So when storms of wild emotion Strike the ocean Of the poet's soul, ere long From each cave and rocky fastness, Floats some fragment of a song : From the far-off isles enchanted, With the golden fruit of Truth; In the tropic clime of Youth; From the strong Will, and the Endeavour That forever Wrestles with the tides of Fate From the wreck of Hopes far-scattered, Tempest-shattered, Floating waste and desolate ;- Ever drifting, drifting, drifting Currents of the restless heart; THE DAY IS DONE. THE day is done, and the darkness I see the lights of the village Gleam through the rain and the mist, And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me, That my soul cannot resist : THE DAY IS DONE. A feeling of sadness and longing, As the mist resembles the rain. Come, read to me some poem, Not from the grand old masters, For, like strains of martial music, Read from some humbler poet, Who, through long days of labor, Such songs have power to quiet That follows after prayer. Then read from the treasured volume The poem of thy choice, And lend to the rhyme of the poet The beauty of thy voice. 267 |