We found him here upon the drying sand, Bloodless and sodden, like a beaten rag; A bight of stranded rope clinched in his hand, And round his waist a flag. A sailor? Yes; his schooner, deep with coal, Had lost her sails and driving shoreward fast Struck in the night upon the outer shoal -- Look there, you'll see her mast. We watched the surf when morning brought us light, We tracked the beach until the West was red -- Then ocean, weary of her wasteful fight, Drew back and left the dead. For she has freaks of vengeance, then is mild, Doing her killing with a jester's joy; Drowning the strong man, tossing up the child, Sparing but to destroy. But when a woman came and fiercely drew That corse to her and with a sob of pain, Sobbed out her life, we blessed the sea and knew Why it gave back again. |