Читать книгу Verses - Coolidge Susan - Страница 14

  Long reaches of wet grasses sway

  Where ran the sea but yesterday,

  And white-winged boats at sunset drew

  To anchor in the crimsoning blue.

  The boats lie on the grassy plain,

  Nor tug nor fret at anchor chain;

  Their errand done, their impulse spent,

  Chained by an alien element,

  With sails unset they idly lie,

  Though morning beckons brave and nigh;

  Like wounded birds, their flight denied,

  They lie, and long and wait the tide.

  About their keels, within the net

  Of tough grass fibres green and wet,

  A myriad thirsty creatures, pent

  In sorrowful imprisonment,

  Await the beat, distinct and sweet,

  Of the white waves' returning feet.

  My soul their vigil joins, and shares

  A nobler discontent than theirs;

  Athirst like them, I patiently

  Sit listening beside the sea,

  And still the waters outward glide:

  When is the turning of the tide?

  Come, pulse of God; come, heavenly thrill!

  We wait thy coming,—and we will.

  The world is vast, and very far

  Its utmost verge and boundaries are;

  But thou hast kept thy word to-day

  In India and in dim Cathay,

  And the same mighty care shall reach

  Each humblest rock-pool of this beach.

  The gasping fish, the stranded keel,

  This dull dry soul of mine, shall feel

  Thy freshening touch, and, satisfied,

  Shall drink the fulness of the tide.