 | The Collected Poems of Philip Bourke Marston |  |
DESOLATE.
I strain my worn-out sight across the sea;
I hear the wan waves sobbing on the strand;
My eyes grow weary of the sea and land,
Of the wide deep, and the forsaken lea.
Ah, love, return! ah, love, come back to me! —
As well these ebbing waves I might command
To turn and kiss the moist, deserted sand!
The joy that was, is not, and cannot be.
I hear the wan waves sobbing on the strand;
My eyes grow weary of the sea and land,
Of the wide deep, and the forsaken lea.
Ah, love, return! ah, love, come back to me! —
As well these ebbing waves I might command
To turn and kiss the moist, deserted sand!
The joy that was, is not, and cannot be.
The salt shore, furrowed by the foam, smells sweet;
Oh, blest for me, if it were now my lot,
To make this shore my rest, and hear all strife
Die out, like yon tide's faint receding beat:
If he forgot so easily in life,
I may in death forget that he forgot.
Oh, blest for me, if it were now my lot,
To make this shore my rest, and hear all strife
Die out, like yon tide's faint receding beat:
If he forgot so easily in life,
I may in death forget that he forgot.
| The Collected Poems of Philip Bourke Marston | |