I heard, 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 my voice thy music, morn and eve? 

 My breath, thy healthful climate in the heats. 

 My touch thy antidote, my bay thy bath? 



Behold the Sea, 

 The opaline, the plentiful and strong. 

 Yet beautiful as is the rose in June; 

 Creating a sweet climate by my breath, 

 Washing 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 mam. 



EfTierson. 



