THE SONG OF THE SURF 



For the empty seat by the ingle ? for children 



'reft of their sire ? 

 For the bride, sitting, sad, and single, and pale, 



by the flickering fire? 

 For your ravenous pools of suction ? for your 



shattering billow swell ? 

 For your ceaseless work of destruction ? for 



your hunger insatiable ? 



Not far from this very place, on the sand and 



the shingle dry, 

 He lay, with his batter'd face upturn'd to the 



frowning sky. 

 When your waters wash'd and swill'd high 



over his drowning head, 

 When his nostrils and lungs were fill'd, when 



his feet and hands were as lead, 

 When against the rock he was hurl'd, and 



suck'd again to the sea, 

 On the shores of another world, on the brink 



of eternity, 

 On the verge of annihilation, did it come to 



that swimmer strong, 



The sudden interpretation of your mystical, 



weird-like song ? 

 6 8i 



