What are the wild waves saying,
Sister, the whole day long,
That ever amid our playing
read more

What are the wild waves saying,
Sister, the whole day long,
That ever amid our playing
I hear but their low, lone song?

The great fishpond (the sea).

The great fishpond (the sea).

Alone I walked on the ocean strand,
A pearly shell was in my hand;
I stooped, and read more

Alone I walked on the ocean strand,
A pearly shell was in my hand;
I stooped, and wrote upon the sand
My name, the year, the day.
As onward from the sport I passed,
One lingering look behind I cast,
A wave came rolling high and fast,
And washed my lines away.

If I take the wings of the morning, and dwell in the uttermost
parts of the sea;
Even read more

If I take the wings of the morning, and dwell in the uttermost
parts of the sea;
Even there shall thy hand lead me, and thy right hand shall hold
me.

Deep calleth upon deep at the noise of thy waterspouts: all thy
waves and thy billows are gone over read more

Deep calleth upon deep at the noise of thy waterspouts: all thy
waves and thy billows are gone over me.

There is many a rich stone laid up in the bowells of the earth,
many a fair pearle in read more

There is many a rich stone laid up in the bowells of the earth,
many a fair pearle in the bosome of the sea, that never was seene
nor never shall bee.

I never was on the dull, tame shore,
But I loved the great sea more and more.

I never was on the dull, tame shore,
But I loved the great sea more and more.

Behold the Sea,
The opaline, the plentiful and strong,
Yet beautiful as is the rose in June,
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Behold the Sea,
The opaline, the plentiful and strong,
Yet beautiful as is the rose in June,
Fresh as the trickling rainbow of July;
Sea full of food, the nourisher of kinds,
Purger of earth, and medicine of men;
Creating a sweet climate by my breath,
Washing out harms and griefs from memory,
And, in my mathematic ebb and flow,
Giving a hint of that which changes not.

That make the meadows green; and, poured round all,
Old Ocean's gray and melancholy waste,--
Are but read more

That make the meadows green; and, poured round all,
Old Ocean's gray and melancholy waste,--
Are but the solemn decorations all
Of the great tomb of man.