George Allan Mackenzie (1849–1936)

THE SALT wave, of the quiet valley fain,

Has pushed across the sands. The talking stream

Is silenced by its passing. Will it gain

Th’ untroubled reaches where the lilies dream,

To bask in still content beneath the gleam

Of stormless skies? No; it has climbed in vain;

For even now ’tis falling. I could dream

It breathed a long-drawn utterance of pain.

And thou, my soul, thou dost attain release

From mortal sadness in the fields divine

Where thou art often led; but it is thine

To stay—how short a time! below thy peace

The great world travails, like the moaning sea,

And calls thee back to share its agony.