The Tide by William Bell Scott

Obliviously we long sat there
Weaving lines to praise the sea,
Objecting still, we still compare,
And try to make the rhythm agree
Between the verses and the sea.
When we thus began, the wave
Drove the pebbles up the beach,
Then resilient to the main
Drew them with it back again:
Nor dreamt we where the tide might reach,
Till it was round us everywhere,
Deep enough to be our grave!
For this is still the destined way,
We are the masters, yet the prey.

From: Scott, William Bell, A Poet’s Harvest Home: Being One Hundred Short Poems with an Aftermath of Twenty Short Poems, 1893, Elkin Mathews and John Lane: London, p. 29.
(https://archive.org/stream/poetsharvesthome00scotrich#page/28/mode/2up)

Date: 1882

By: William Bell Scott (1811-1890)

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