Page:Poems, Volume 2, Coates, 1916.djvu/77



HEY are at rest.

How still it is—and cold!

The morrow comes; the night is growing old.

They are at rest. Why then, unresting, keep

In vigil lone, a pain that will not sleep—

An anguish, only to itself confessed,

That hushed a moment lies,

Then wakes to sudden eager life, and cries?

At rest?

Ah, me! The wind wails by,

Like to a grief that would but cannot die.

How sore the heart can ache,

Yet beat and beat and beat, and never break!

(Hearken!—Was that a child's awaking cry?)

It was the sea—the ever troubled sea!

My little ones, it was the sea,

That moans unceasingly