Beyond the low marsh-meadows and the beach, Seen through the hoary trunks of windy pines, The long blue level of the ocean shines. The distant surf, with hoarse, complaining speech, Out from its sandy barrier seems to reach; And while the sun behind the woods declines, The moaning sea with sighing boughs combines, And waves and pines make answer, each to each. O melancholy soul, whom far and near, In life, faith, hope, the same sad undertone Pursues from thought to thought! thou needs must hear An old refrain, too much, too long thine own: ’T is thy mortality infects thine ear; The mournful strain was in thyself alone.
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