Classic Poem

To break the gently undulating sea
With oars it seems to fondle lovingly,
And watch the eddies as they circle back
 Along my winding track.

To rest upon my oars, and, as I glide
With wind and current, in the cooling tide
To dip my hands, while something seems to say
 Within me, “Let us pray.”

As near as may be to the fringèd shore
To keep my boat, and lean her gunnel o'er,
Watching the many-colored floor, untrod
 Save by the feet of God.

His ways are in the deep; His sunlight, too,
Pierces its deeps of shadow through and through,
And touches many a wonder that abides
 Below the lowest tides.

How beautiful the sunlight on the sea,
When waves by millions twinkle as in glee!
But 'tis the sunlight in the sea whose gleam
 To me doth fairest seem.

It glorifies the pebbles with its rays;
It turns gray sand to perfect chrysoprase;
Plays with the amber tresses of the rocks
 As with a maiden's locks.

Anon in some sequestered nook I lie,
And see the yachts, white-winged, go sailing by,
And feel, whichever quickest onward flies,
 Mine is the truest prize.

I watch the race with neither hope nor fear,
Since none than other is to me more dear;
My prize the perfect beauty of the sight,—
 Unselfish, pure delight.

I sit and wonder what the cliffs would say
If they could speak, remembering the day
When first, “Thus far, no farther,” it was said;
 “Here thy proud waves be stayed!”

Since then what laughter and what cry and moan
The sea has offered up to them alone!
What suns have kissed, what storms have left their blight!
 What silence of the night!

So wondering, how strange it is and still,
Save where, a mile away, the drogers fill
Their battered dories with the shingly store
 Of the long-hoarding shore!

That far-off sound is but a gauge that tells
How deep the silence is; like Sunday bells
Which, ringing, tell the resting village o'er
 How still it was before.

These are my works and days: in these I drown
The cares and troubles of the noisy town,
And let it seethe and rumble as it may,
 Day after weary day.

But when the summer days are sweetly fled,
And great fall clouds go floating overhead;
When asters lurk along the pleasant ways
 With golden-rod ablaze;

Then I will back again to faces see
Than all these sights more beautiful to me;
Where friendliest voices wait for me to hear,
 Than all these sounds more dear.