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All night the thirsty beach has listening lain With patience dumb, Counting the slow, said moments of her pain; Now morn has come, And with the morn the punctual tide again.

The punctual tide draws up the bay, With ripple of wave and hiss of spray.

The western tide crept up along the sand, And o'er and o'er the sand, And round and round the sand, As far as eye could see The rolling mist came down and hid the land: And never home came she.

The tide rises, the tide falls, The twilight darkens, the curlew calls; . . . . The little waves, with their soft, white hands, Efface the footprints in the sands, And the tide rises, the tide falls.

I saw the long line of the vacant shore, The sea-weed and the shells upon the sand, And the brown rocks left bare on every hand, As if the ebbing tide would flow no more.

Tide flowing is feared, for many a thing, Great danger to such as be sick, it doth bring; Sea ebb, by long ebbing, some respite doth give, And sendeth good comfort, to such as shall live.