FROM this quaint cabin window I can see The strange, vague line of ghostly driftwood, though No ray of silver moon or soft star-glow Steals through the summer night's solemnity. Pale forms drive landward and wild figures flee Like spectres up the shore; I hear the slow, Firm tread of marching billows which I know Will walk beside the years that are to be. Sweet, gentle sleep is banished from mine eyes; I lie and think of wrecks until the sobs And groans of drowning sailors, lost at sea, Come mingled with the gray gulls' plaintive cries And those tumultuous, incessant throbs -- The heavy heart-beats of Eternity. |