That ride the creamy foam,

I almost hear the brave winds

O’er singing seas at home.

And when I think of white mists

That rise from shore to shore,

In utter weariness I weep

But cannot see them more.

And some day when I leave my dreams

These tides in which I’ve striven,

I’ll lock their memories in my breast

And carry them to heaven.

{47}

Tree Sounds

THE forest closed and folded

T

About me like a tent.

The tree tops swayed and toppled

Rain riven and wind-rent.

The old harp in the pine trees

Struck cords minor and deep.

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