The west wind clears the morning,
The sea shines silvery gray;
The night was long, but fresh and strong
Awakes the breezy day;
Like smoke that flies across the lift,
The clouds are faint and thin;
And near and far along the bar,
The tide comes creeping in.
The dreams of midnight showed me
A life of loneliness,—
A stony shore, that knew no more
The bright wave's soft caress;
The morning broke, the vision fled—
With dawn new hopes begin;
The light is sweet, and at my feet
The tide comes rolling in.
Over the bare, black boulders
The ocean sweeps and swells;
Oh, waters wide, ye come to hide
Dull stones and empty shells!
I hear the floods lift up their voice
With loud, triumphant din;
Sad dreams depart—rest, doubting heart,
The tide comes foaming in!
"Soft spread the carpets of the sod,
And scarlet-oak and golden-rod
With blushes and with smiles
Lit up the forest aisles."
No sound was in the woodlands, save the
squirrel's dropping shell,
And the yellow leaves among the boughs, low
rustling as they fell.—