I baard, or seemed to hear, the chiding Sea 

 Say, Pilgrim, why so late and slow to come? 

 Am I not always here, thy summer home? 

 Is not mj' voice thy music, morn and eve? 

 My breath thy healthful climate in the heats. 

 My tr>uch thy antidote, my bay thy bath? 



Behol 1 the Sea, 

 The opaline, the plentiful and strong, 

 Vet beautiful as is the rose in June ; 

 Creating a sweet climate by my breath, 

 Waih ng out harms and griefs from memory 

 And, in my mathematic ebb and flow, 

 Giving a hint of that which changes not. 

 I with my hammer, pounding evermore 

 The rocky coast, smite Andes into dust, 

 Strewing my bed, and, in another age. 

 Rebuild a continent of better men. 

 Then I unbar the doors: my paths lead out 

 The exodus of nations; I disperse 

 Men to all shores that front the hoary main. 



Emerson^ 



