Classic Poem

The wild waves toss the driftwood high
Upon the rocks or gleaming sands,
And there in scattered sort they lie,
The spoils of many distant lands.

And now and then a pleading face,
In mute appeal to God, is turned,
In which we seek in vain to trace
The perished thought that glowed and burned.

And once I saw upon the sands
A baby with bright golden hair;
Clinched were the darling's little hands
And on its lips a smile was there.

The wild waves toss the driftwood high
Upon the rocks or gleaming sands,
And there in scattered sort they lie,
The spoils of many distant lands.

And now and then a pleading face,
In mute appeal to God, is turned,
In which we seek in vain to trace
The perished thought that glowed and burned.

And once I saw upon the sands
A baby with bright golden hair;
Clinched were the darling's little hands
And on its lips a smile was there.