Contrite sea

Mourn, sea, mourn!
Grind thyself against the rocks,
Sea love-lorn.
Every barque thy billow knocks
Ocean birds in wailing flocks
Know thy shame and cry our loss;
Cry our loss; cry our toss;
Cry our loss where sea fronds toss—
Cry—and mourn.

Mad, mad sea!
Why speak'st thou to me?
What can I but bear the loss,
Carry through my life the cross
Built by thee?
Playful monster, is thy hand . . .
Tipped with nails of purest white—
Fingers which grind rocks to sand . . .
Is thy hand so soft, so light
That thou migbt'st not touch the ship,
Touch it gently and withdraw:
Touch and yet not harm that chip—
Floating, fragile, puny chip—
Touch that soft steel on thy lip
And drop not in thy maw?

Contrite sea!
Was she not adored by thee?
Did'st thou catch thy breath in bliss,
Sigh with rapture, when her feet
Tiny, glowing-rosy feel—
Would thine eager wavelets meet:
Meet, and kiss?
Swirling ocean, ne'er at rest,
Was there not, as in my breast
Voice which said: "Be silent, lest
Thou should'st lose or harm thy guest?"
—Love, is this.

Rage, beast; roar,
Thrash thyself beneath my feet,
Coil and writhe and fling up sleet,
Salty, blinding, smoking sleet;
page 47 As in pain thy breakers beat—
Breakers beat; breakers beat;
Till the moon's pale disc they meet
On heaven's floor.
Cry our grief, green sea, to-night.
Groan thy sorry dirge to-night.
She will grace our mortal sight—
Nevermore.

—B.A.S.