Verses. Coolidge Susan

        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.

        All night the thirsty beach has listening lain,

           With patience dumb,

        Counting the slow, sad moments of her pain;

           Now morn has come,

        And with the morn the punctual tide again.

        I hear the white battalions down the bay

           Charge with a cheer;

        The sun's gold lances prick them on their way,—

           They plunge, they rear,—

        Foam-plumed and snowy-pennoned, they are here!

        The roused shore, her bright hair backward blown,

           Stands on the verge

        And waves a smiling welcome, beckoning on

           The flying surge,

        While round her feet, like doves, the billows crowd and urge.

        Her glad lips quaff the salt, familiar wine;

           Her spent urns fill;

        All hungering creatures know the sound, the sign,—

           Quiver and thrill,

        With glad expectance crowd and banquet at their will.

        I, too, the rapt contentment join and share;

           My tide is full;

        There is new happiness in earth, in air:

           All beautiful

        And fresh the world but now so bare and dull.

        But while we raise the cup of bliss so high,

           Thus satisfied,

        Another shore beneath a sad, far sky

           Waiteth her tide,

        And thirsts with sad complainings still denied.

        On earth's remotest bound she sits and waits

           In doubt and pain;

        Our joy is signal for her sad estates;

           Like dull refrain

        Marring our song, her sighings rise in vain.

        To each his turn—the ebb-tide and the flood,

           The less, the more—

        God metes his portions justly out, I know;

           But still before

        My mind forever floats that pale and grieving shore.

        She has been just a year in Heaven.

        Unmarked by white moon or gold sun,

        By stroke of clock or clang of bell,

        Or shadow lengthening on the way,

        In the full noon and perfect day,

        In Safety's very citadel,

        The happy hours have sped, have run;

        And, rapt in peace, all pain forgot,

        She whom we love, her white soul shriven,

        Smiles at the thought and wonders