When thinking of the white gulls
That ride the creamy foam,
I almost hear the brave winds
O’er singing seas at home.
And when I think of white mists
That rise from shore to shore,
In utter weariness I weep
But cannot see them more.
And some day when I leave my dreams
These tides in which I’ve striven,
I’ll lock their memories in my breast
And carry them to heaven.
Tree Sounds
THE forest closed and folded
About me like a tent.
The tree tops swayed and toppled
Rain riven and wind-rent.
The old harp in the pine trees
Struck cords minor and deep.
So in the storm tossed forest
I was rocked to sleep.
That was long ago, O’ ages,
Yet thru these rushing years,
The sounds of a wind rent forest
Is ever in my ears.
A Wish
THEY called me girl, gave me the name
Of one I’ll never see.
I wish they’d given me instead
The name of some nice tree.
A tree that rocks with every wind,
Fast rooted in the ground,
Straining its eager branches up
To where God’s looking down.