There is no color on the tide,
No color on the helpless sky;
Across the beach,—a safe, small sound—
The grass-hid crickets cry.
And through the dusk I hear the keels
Of home-bound boats grate low and sweet.
O happy lights! O watching eyes!
Leap out the sound to greet.
O tender arms that meet and clasp!
Gather and cherish while ye may.
The morrow knoweth God. Ye know
Your own are yours to-day.
Forever from the Gloucester winds
The cries of hungry children start.
There breaks in every Gloucester wave
A widowed woman's heart.
THE TERRIBLE TEST.
Separate, upon the folded page
Of myth or marvel, sad or glad,
The test that gave the Lord to thee,
And thee to us, O Galahad!
"Found pure in deed, and word, and thought,"
The creature of our dream and guess,
The vision of the brain thou art,
The eidolon of holiness.
Man with the power of the God,
Man with the weaknesses of men,
Whose lips the Sangreal leaned to feed,
"Whose strength was the strength of ten,"
We read—and smile; no man thou wast;
No human pulses thine could be;
With downcast eyes we read—and sigh;
So terrible is purity!