SEAWEED. WHEN descends on the Atlantic The gigantic Storm-wind of the equinox, Landward in his wrath he scourges The toiling surges, Laden with seaweed from the rocks : From Bermuda's reefs; from edges Of sunken ledges, Silver-flashing From the tumbling surf, that buries The Orkneyan skerries, spars, uplifting 1 Ever drifting, drifting, drifting On the shifting Of sandy beaches, 4 So when storms of wild emotion Strike the ocean In its vastness, From the far-off isles enchanted, Heaven has planted Gleams Elysian 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 On the shifting They, like hoarded THE DAY IS DONE. The day is done, and the darkness Fall from the wings of night, As a feather is wafted downward From an eagle in his flight. 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 : A feeling of sadness and longing, That is not akin to pain, And resembles sorrow only As the mist resembles rain. Come, read to me some poem, Some simple and heartfelt lay, That shall soothe this restless feeling And banish the thoughts of day. Not from the grand old masters Not from the bards sublime, Whose distant footsteps echo Through the corridors of time. For, like strains of martial music, Their mighty thoughts suggest Life's endless toil and endeavour ; And to-night I long for rest. |