By the Pacific

From this quaint cabin window I can see The strange, vague line of ghostly drift-wood, though No ray of silver moon or soft star-glow Steals through the summer night’s solemnity. Pale forms drive landward and wild figures flee Like spectres up the shore; I hear the slow, Firm tread of marching billows which I know Will walk beside the years that are to be. Sweet, gentle sleep is banished from mine eyes; I lie and think of wrecks until the sobs And groans of drowning sailors, lost at sea, Come mingled with the gray gulls’ plaintive cries And those tumultuous, incessant throbs— The heavy heart-beats of Eternity.

Collection: 
English
Herbert Bashford

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