 | Narcissus and Other Poems |  |
139
THE TIDE.
Six hours it voiceless sank along the shoreIn the soft cloud-girt eve; turned in its bed,
And dreamed of other lands. But when the night
Grew to its stillest, and none knew thereof,
There crept across the world a wind-like sigh—
Sweet breath of waking lips—that rose, and passed,
And died along the night, and rose again
Ineffable. And Ocean knew once more
Her crescent tide-mark with its golden range
Of fretted sands and shell-impearlèd weeds,
And once more, joyous, filled with rolling waves
Her creeks and inland waterways; then paused,
And, wondering at herself, sank back to rest,
And dreamed again the dream that has no end.
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