A Parable

Between the sandhills and the sea   A narrow strip of silver sand,   Whereon a little maid doth stand, Who picks up shells continually, Between the sandhills and the sea. Far as her wondering eyes can reach,   A vastness heaving gray in gray   To the frayed edges of the day Furls his red standard on the breach Between the sky-line and the beach. The waters of the flowing tide   Cast up the sea-pink shells and weed;   She toys with shells, and doth not heed The ocean, which on every side Is closing round her vast and wide. It creeps her way as if in play,   Pink shells at her pink feet to cast;   But now the wild waves hold her fast, And bear her off and melt away, A vastness heaving gray in gray.