ON THE MAINE COAST

The rocks, lean fingers of the land,

Reach out into the sea

And cool themselves, all day long,

In the tide drippingly.

They catch the seaweed in them

And the starfish on their tips,

And gulls that light

And the swift flight

Of swallows skimming grey and white —

And spars of broken ships.

The moon, God's perfect silver,

With which He pays the world

For toil and quest and day's unrest,

Is washed on them and swirled.

And avidly they seize it,

Then let it slip away,

Only again

And yet again

To grasp at it — as eager men

At joy no hand can stay.