And not far off, on tiptoe seen,
The brown dike and the sky between,
A shifting field that heaves and slides,—
The blue breast of the Minas tides.
A-through the little harbor go
The currents of the scant Pereau,
Drawn slowly, drawn from springs unseen
Amid the marsh’s vasts of green.
Up from the wharf at Whitewaters,
Where scarce a slim sandpiper stirs,