The Poetry Corner

Ebb-Tide.

By Susan Coolidge (Sarah Chauncey Woolsey)

Long reaches of wet grasses sway Where ran the sea but yesterday, And white-winged boats at sunset drew To anchor in the crimsoning blue. The boats lie on the grassy plain, Nor tug nor fret at anchor chain; Their errand done, their impulse spent, Chained by an alien element, With sails unset they idly lie, Though morning beckons brave and nigh; Like wounded birds, their flight denied, They lie, and long and wait the tide. About their keels, within the net Of tough grass fibres green and wet, A myriad thirsty creatures, pent In sorrowful imprisonment, Await the beat, distinct and sweet, Of the white waves' returning feet. My soul their vigil joins, and shares A nobler discontent than theirs; Athirst like them, I patiently Sit listening beside the sea, And still the waters outward glide: When is the turning of the tide? Come, pulse of God; come, heavenly thrill! We wait thy coming,--and we will. The world is vast, and very far Its utmost verge and boundaries are; But thou hast kept thy word to-day In India and in dim Cathay, And the same mighty care shall reach Each humblest rock-pool of this beach. The gasping fish, the stranded keel, This dull dry soul of mine, shall feel Thy freshening touch, and, satisfied, Shall drink the fulness of the tide.