The low sandy beach and the thin scrub pine,
The wide reach of bay and the long sky line,--
O, I am far from home!
The salt, salt smell of the thick sea air,
And the smooth round stones that the ebbtides wear,--
When will the good ship come?
The wretched stumps all charred and burned,
And the deep soft rut where the cartwheel turned,--
Why is the world so old?
The lapping wave, and the broad gray sky
Where the cawing crows and the slow gulls fly,--
Where are the dead untold?
The thin, slant willows by the flooded bog,
The huge stranded hulk and the floating log,--
Sorrow with life began!
And among the dark pines, and along the flat shore,
O the wind, and the wind, for evermore!
What will become of man?