The Book of the Native

by Sir Charles G. D. Roberts

[Ebb]

The tide goes out, the tide goes out; once more

The empty day goes down the empty shore.

The tide goes out; the wharves deserted lie

Under the empty solitude of sky.

The tide goes out; the dwindling channels ache

With the old hunger, with the old heartbreak.

The tide goes out; the lonely wastes of sand

Implore the benediction of thy hand.