Motif.

Like scattered notes of music are the gulls that stand
Along the bars the morning tide marked on the sand.
The fingers of the wind pluck soft arpeggios
From the green keys of the stiff dune-grass: sound flows
About the restless sand until the melody
Piped by the treble-throated gulls now moves the sea
To leaping rhythm. Foam cascades a sparkling air
Above the rushing beat of waters, poising there
A moment while the torrents crash in thund'rous chords,
Till the ebb-tide to the hidden play'r pause affords.
And once more the wind resolves into slow harmony
The quiet-falling motif-cadence of the sea.

—Enid B. V. Saunders.