The Tide

The tide makes music At the foot of the beach; The waves sing together Rumble of breakers. Ships there are swaying, Into the distance, Thrum of the cordage, Slap of the sails.

The tide makes music At the foot of the beach; Low notes of an organ 'Gainst the dull clang of bells. The tide's tense purple On the untrodden sand: Its throat is blue, Its hands are gold.

The tide makes music: The tide all day Catches light from the clouds That float over the sky.

Ocean, old serpent, Coils up and uncoils; With sinuous motion, With rustle of scales.