THE BROKEN MAST

It lies alone upon a tide-swept shore,

Above a crescent beach of silver sand,

Flung high upon the rocks by some great hand

Stretched from the dark, whose fingers clutched and tore

The main-mast from the ship. Above it soar

White gulls, and near in wild-rose tangle stand

Old twisted pines, where song-birds of the land

Mingle soft singing with the ocean's roar.

And through long summer days it dreams old dreams

Of far-off southern forests, and the sighing

Of wind-blown boughs above bird-haunted streams;

But when the storm sets the white spindrift flying

It thrills and trembles with the old unrest,

And shakes the wild-rose petals from its breast.