All night long the even roll of sea
Rhythmic and slow
On silence to whose inner mystery
No man may go.
Socrates, Plato, Christ must all have heard
Walking the lonely beach
Listening for that hidden inner word
That they might teach.
All lonely men the centuries send down
To master human things
Must have been strengthened by this monotone
To evener ponderings.
Quietly feeling what we feel tonight
That there is hidden bond
Between our Deepselves and some infinite
Deepness beyond.
IN AN OLD BURYING GROUND.
This is strange heraldry
The graveyard paints
For him who best perceives
Its curious feints.
Under its leaning stones
Sailors and parson men
Titles and beggarmen
Maidens and crones,
Mingle their bones.
They laugh at dreams we weave
Of equality
Under the sun
Yet here it’s done!
Under the frail grass-spear
All these are equal here
None lie alone.
Greek name and Bible name
Pagan and prude;
Under the grass
Not any class.
Fine old aristocrat—
Right near his trimkept plat
The cobbler’s lass!
Also I notice near
Sun shining full and clear
Violets as blue.
The man who used to swear
Sleeping quite calmly there
Where Quakers do.
Dreamer and prig and crank;
Humble and full of swank
Level they rank
To us they all seem just
Handfuls of human dust
Even and blank.