A Marshland River.
The river banks red-bright beneath the sunLay empty to the breeze, which like a streamFlowed softly downward to the tide out-run,Sweeping across the flats that idly dream,Then drifted out to sea. Short while the tideLay moveless where the river opened wideIts mouth unto the bay with thirsty throatAgape and red for the long quenching draughtOf foamy brine. Shortwhile the anchored boatDrew not upon the chain, and all the craftLay to against the turning of the flood;Low tide marked by the heron and her brood.Without a sign of finger or of lip,The tide turned inward from the outer seaThe hidden anchor feels the drawing ship,The fisher craft let all their sails go free.Up to the river rises the quick flood,Into the marsh's veins like pulsing blood,Gateways of ancient mould; thence to the hoarGray granite hills of primal time to storeThe tidal elements. Thus has the deepMade him a beast of burden, treading slowThrough centuries with toil that cannot sleep:And front unyielding to the winter's snow;Nor lingering under all the summer's sweepOf hot alluring rays; bound to no powerIn earth or heaven, save that which times the hourOf night and day to lift his reddened kneesAnd mighty shoulders out of Ocean's mineTo tread the marshy stairway of the sea,And strew his burden at the secret sign.
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