AT ETRETAT.
39
We are not glad of any morn to come,
Since that winged joy we never more shall see,
But in the passion of the winds and waves
Something there seems akin to thee and me.
Since that winged joy we never more shall see,
But in the passion of the winds and waves
Something there seems akin to thee and me.
They call! Shall we not go, out on that tide,
To touch, perchance, some shore where tempests cease,
Where no wind blows, and storm-torn souls forget
Their past disasters in that utmost peace?
To touch, perchance, some shore where tempests cease,
Where no wind blows, and storm-torn souls forget
Their past disasters in that utmost peace?
