Fragment: August 4, 1856

A lovely morning, without the glare of the sun,
the sea in great commotion, chafing and foaming.

So from the bosom of darkness our days come roaring and gleaming,
— — Chafe and break into foam, sink into darkness again.
But on the shores of Time each leaves some trace of its passage,
— — Though the succeeding wave washes it out from the sand.
Rate this poem: 


No reviews yet.