 | The Collected Poems of Philip Bourke Marston |  |
THE NINTH WAVE.
Lo, now, the end of all things come at last!—
The great ninth wave, whose coming none might stay;
A bitter wave made strong to ruin and slay!
I stretch my hopeless hands out to the past
From which it whirls me; and I hear a blast
Of melancholy music sweep this way,
That makes my very soul afraid to pray,
And all my life shrink fainting and aghast.
The great ninth wave, whose coming none might stay;
A bitter wave made strong to ruin and slay!
I stretch my hopeless hands out to the past
From which it whirls me; and I hear a blast
Of melancholy music sweep this way,
That makes my very soul afraid to pray,
And all my life shrink fainting and aghast.
O dead mute mouths and unrecording eyes;
Dead hearts that loved me,—is it well with ye?
Is death made sweeter, now that even she
For whom alway my spirit thirsts and cries—
Who, going, took the light from out of my skies—
Has joined your high and silent company?
Dead hearts that loved me,—is it well with ye?
Is death made sweeter, now that even she
For whom alway my spirit thirsts and cries—
Who, going, took the light from out of my skies—
Has joined your high and silent company?
| The Collected Poems of Philip Bourke Marston | |