The Broken Mast

It lies alone upon a tide-swept shore, Above a crescent beach of silver sand, Flung high upon the rocks by some great hand Stretched from the dark, whose fingers clutched and tore The main-mast from the ship. Above it soar White gulls, and near in wild-rose tangle stand Old twisted pines, where song-birds of the land Mingle soft singing with the ocean's roar.

And through long summer days it dreams old dreams Of far-off southern forests, and the sighing Of wind-blown boughs above bird-haunted streams; But when the storm sets the white spindrift flying It thrills and trembles with the old unrest, And shakes the wild-rose petals from its breast.