Classic Poem

The woods have voices, and the sea,
Her choral-son and threnody:
But thou alike to sun and rain
Dost mute and motionless remain.

As pilgrims to the shrine of Sleep,
Through all thy solemn spaces creep
The Tides—a moment on thy breast
To pause in sacramental rest;
Then, flooded with the mystery,
To sink reluctant to the sea,
In landward loneliness to yearn
Till to thy bosom they return.