I on this tide-beat shore, and clutching time, Marvel of what account my selfhood's will,-- 'Gainst timeless might time's impotence is laid! And through my inmost soul, as at the prime, A voice from out the awesome vast doth thrill: "O man, thou art in God's own image made!"
Exquisite thing soft cradled by the tide, Sprung not from lathe or wheel or human wit, Wonder of whorls which touch the infinite,-- Shallop that waits a brave undine's white bride! Within, the smooth and sheeny walls are dyed With the pure pink of autumn dawns alit; Without, with stories of the deep o'er-writ,-- How fairy slight the thunderous seas to ride!
The massy tides gride over reef and ledge, And sudden waves from fell Euroclydon Dash to swift death the sailor in the Bay; But this, all lipt with pearl, and on the edge Of doom--the fingers of a babe might slay-- Sleeps in the stressful surge at Blomidon.
In white-spruce bower, with outlook on the sea, Kingcups and daisies dancing down the slope, And broad-winged ships, world-messengers of hope, Furling their plumes or lifting them all free To catch the skyey airs--here 'tis that we Oft watch the fringes of the tide, where ope The swinging doors through which all blind-fold grope The muffled waves of shoreless mystery.
The touch of two vast worlds is on us now. Our spirits hear the ebb and flow unseen Of swift commingling tides of far and near,-- The low sweet murmur of the early vow, Commerce of life's strange sea, on wing between, And folding plumes arrived the heavenly pier.
Thou hast the secret of the fiery dew, Variety and number infinite Are vestured in thy wavy flakes of white,-- Of distance and of space thou hast the clue. Aloof from vapory clouds that fume and spue, Lifting thyself victorious in fight Into the far repose of zonëd light, Thou strivest to attain nirvâna-blue.
Mottled, or plumed, or ribbed, or ripple-barred, Encamped upon the unfenced fields of space, Unsullied are thy tents cool-washed in air; And when morn's bugle blows, or sky's new-starred, Thy cohorts wait day's coming, parting face, Like flocks of rosy angels drifting there.
And so the strife goes on from age to age, In ceaseless round of victory and defeat: Young Day comes forth, sun-clad, with shining feet, In beauteous pomp, and throws his battle-gage. Grim ancient Night, distraught and blind with rage, Twanging her dreadful bow, flies in retreat, Wrapt round with raven darkness as a sheet, Till from the east she may the duel wage.