Ebb-Tide.

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.