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IRISH SONGS AND LTR1CS 271 |
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Beyond the weary waste of sea, Beyond the wider waste of death,
I strain my gaze and cry to thee Whose still heart never answereth.
0 brother, is thy coral bed
So sweet thou wilt not hear my speech ? This hand, methinks, if I were dead, To thy dear hand would strive to reach.
1 would not, if God gave us choice
For each to bear the other's part, That mine should be the silent voice, And thine the silent, aching heart.
Ah, well for any voyage done, Whate'er its end—or port or reef;
Better the voyage ne'er begun, For all ships sail the sea of Grief. |
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THE KEARSARGE
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N the gloomy ocean bed Dwelt a formless thing, and said, In the dim and countless eons long ago, " I will build a stronghold high, Ocean's power to defy, And the pride of haughty man to lay low."
Crept the minutes for the sad, Sped the cycles for the glad, |
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