The massy tides gride over reef and ledge,
And sudden waves from fell Euroclydon
Dash to swift death the sailor in the Bay;
But this, all lipt with pearl, and on the edge
Of doom—the fingers of a babe might slay—
Sleeps in the stressful surge at Blomidon.
[TO EMELINE.]
In white-spruce bower, with outlook on the sea,
Kingcups and daisies dancing down the slope,
And broad-winged ships, world-messengers of hope,
Furling their plumes or lifting them all free
To catch the skyey airs—here 'tis that we
Oft watch the fringes of the tide, where ope
The swinging doors through which all blind-fold grope
The muffled waves of shoreless mystery.
The touch of two vast worlds is on us now.
Our spirits hear the ebb and flow unseen
Of swift commingling tides of far and near,—
The low sweet murmur of the early vow,
Commerce of life's strange sea, on wing between,
And folding plumes arrived the heavenly pier.
[THE CIRRUS CLOUD.]
Thou hast the secret of the fiery dew,
Variety and number infinite
Are vestured in thy wavy flakes of white,—
Of distance and of space thou hast the clue.
Aloof from vapory clouds that fume and spue,
Lifting thyself victorious in fight
Into the far repose of zonëd light,
Thou strivest to attain nirvâna-blue.