Weeds of the wave without fruit upon earth,
I lose what I long for, save what I can—
My love, my love, and no love for me!
“It is not much that a man can save
On the sands of life, in the straits of time,
Who swims in sight of the great third wave
That never a swimmer shall cross or climb—
Some waif washed up with the strays and spars
That ebb-tide shows to the shore and the stars,
Weed from the water, grass from the grave,