Page:Verses–Blanche·Baughan-1898.pdf/53

 The daisies purse their petals up, The lambs to shelter creep; Man, putting off his toil, puts on The nothingness of sleep. Still, still upon the shore The waves their music pour.

Deep grows the dusk. You cannot see One crest or column shine. Yet still the unceasing voice on voice Attests the unending line Of homebound waves that come Surely and safely home.

Ay, waves so many! and not one, O’er trackless leagues and vast By nature sent to seek the shore, But finds the shore at last! —God! God! would men were free With no less liberty!