Page:The Unconquered Air, Coates, 1912.djvu/61

 IN LONELINESS

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,

One dear refrain repeating o'er and o'er:—

"Tristram returns no more— 45