6 ALONGSHORE i 



the great city all around, how much more shall the 

 unending rumour of the sea keep a longshoreman 

 dimly, yet constantly, aware that he lives not only 

 on the edge of the land, but on the edges of great 

 mysteries ! He puts to sea — fish being in the 

 bay and the weather fine — the night after he has 

 buried mother, father, child, or friend, or the night 

 before his wedding. What do the changing voices 

 say then? He keeps company with his maid 

 along the cliff-tops, past which the noise of the 

 sea rises thin and spiritualised into the upper air; 

 he brings home his bride along the beach. What, 

 again, do the changing voices say? Probably 

 he does not listen. But he cannot help hearing* 

 And is It not what a man hears without specially 

 listening, what sinks Imperceptibly, sneaks subtly, 

 Into his being, that most determines the colour 

 of his days? The greatest poetry embraces 

 life, not singling out sensations. The greatest 

 mysteries are not Incompatible with wonder as 

 to whether breakfast Is ready; nor are they con- 

 fined to the highly educated, or to those able 

 to make pot-shots at putting them Into words. 

 Lovers and people very deeply religious have 

 always known it. Longshoremen have an Inkling. 

 The gist of life alongshore Is, that It varies 



