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 hay 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. 

 Wash ng out harms and griefs from memory 

 And, in my mathematic ebb and flo^, 

 Giving a hint pf that whicli changes not. 

 I with my hammer, pounding evermore 

 The rocky coast, smite Andes into dust, 

 Strewmg 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. 



Emeraon* 



