Page:Verses–Blanche·Baughan-1898.pdf/109



THE pines stand up in strong tranquillity, The smooth air sleeps like water in a well; But rest comes never to this restless Sea, Still heaving with the old incessant swell, Still clamouring with the old incessant cry. Thou hast no peace, O Sea! No peace have I!

Nought else is uncontent this happy day; Even the sky, thy lover, full and tense With palpable glee, forgets, and can be gay; But thou rememberest! That unquiet sense No sun, no windless weather may appease, No calm allay that cry, and let it cease.