EBB-TIDE.

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.