Along the Eastern shore the low waves creep,
   Making a ceaseless music on the sand,
   A song that gulls and curlews understand,
   The lullaby that sings the day to sleep.
A thousand miles afar, the grim pines keep
   Unending watch upon a shoreless land,
   Yet through their tops, swept by some wizard hand,
   The sound of surf comes singing up the steep.
Sweet, thou canst hear the tidal litany;
   I, mid the pines land-wearied, may but dream
   Of the far shore; but though the distance seem
Between us fixed, impassable, to me
   Cometh thy soul’s voice, chanting love’s old theme,
   And mine doth answer, as the pines the sea.

¹⁸⁸⁵