OFF SHORE.
89
The flower as the tree
They flutter, a legion of flowers on the wing, through the
field of the sea.
Through the furrowless field
Where the foam-blossoms blow
And the secrets are sealed
Of their harvest below
They float in the path of the sunbeams, as flakes or as
blossoms of snow.
Till the sea's ways darken,
And the God, withdrawn,
Give ear not or hearken
If prayer on him fawn,
And the sun's self seem but a shadow, the noon as a
ghost of the dawn.
