Classic Poem

Not those whose life is hid with God,
In the unfathomed sea;
Not those which gleam so milky-white
Under my dory's lee,

As o'er her side I softly lean,
And watch the life below,—
The strange, fair things which there abide,
And those which come and go.

Nor call I mine the crowds that cling
To many a venturous keel,—
A mimic world, whose tiny folk
Through ocean spaces steal.

Mine are the little creatures left
By the retreating sea,
Who long for it to come again,
So masterful and free.

It goes: the hot sun scorches them,
And lovers' careless feet
Tread them to death, as if no life
But theirs were passing sweet.

It comes: it woos, it kisses them;
It drenches them with love;
It is a presence everywhere,—
Around, beneath, above.

And these are mine by lover's right;
And, when the tide is low,
Down to its edge with scooping hands
Or cup of shell I go,

And dip the briny waters up,
And bear them back to give
To these wee things that long for them
As dying men to live.

How eagerly their shells dispart
To take the moisture in!
And do I hear a tiny laugh,—
The faintest, merriest din?

What think they of the sudden draught?
That 'tis the coming sea?
A little wave sent on before
The mighty company?

And when they know it is not that,
Do they reproach the hand
Which brings the broken promise up
From the wave-beaten strand?

Believe it not: they know the step
Of the advancing sea,
Better than maidens know the feet
That come so stealthily.

They take, with thanks, the human help,
And still with patience wait
For the vast love to come and fill
The void it doth create.

So wait our souls on Thee, O God!
Their longing is from Thee:
All human help must ever hint
At Thy sufficiency.

Come as the ocean comes, to give
Its energy divine;
Fold us in Thy encircling arms,
And make us wholly Thine.