Our sails are never lost to sight;
On every gulf and bay
They gleam, in winter wind-cloud white,
In summer rain-cloud gray.

We hold the coast with slippery grip;
We dare from cape to cape:
Our leaden fingers feel the dip
And trace the channel's shape.
We sail or bide as serves the tide;

Inshore we cheat its flow,
And side by side at anchor ride
When stormy head-winds blow.
We are the offspring of the shoal,
The hucksters of the sea;
From customs theft and pilot toll
Thank God that we are free.

Legging on and off the beach,
Drifting up the strait,
Fluking down the river reach,
Towing through the gate -
That's the way the Coaster goes,
Flirting with the gale:
Everywhere the tide flows,
Everywhere the wind blows,

From York to Beavertail.

Here and there to get a load,
Freighting anything;
Running off with spanker stowed,
Loafing wing-a-wing -
That's the way the Coaster goes,
Chumming with the land:
Everywhere the tide flows,
Everywhere the wind blows,

From Ray to Rio Grande.

We split the swell where rings the bell
On many a shallow's edge,
We take our flight past many a light
That guards the deadly ledge;
We greet Montauk across the form,
We work the Vineyard Sound,
The Diamond sees us running home,
The Georges outward bound;
Absecom hears our canvas beat
When tacked off Brigantine;
We raise the Gulls with lifted sheet,
Pass wing-and-wing between.

Off Monomoy we fight the gale,
We drift off Sandy Key;

Before thou wast a being, made

Of spirit, as of flesh,

Thou didst sleep beneath the beats
Of my tumultuous heart, and driuk,
With little aimless lips

And blind, unseeing eyes,
From every bursting vein

Replete with life's abundant flood.
Ay! even of my very breath,
And from my blood

Thou didst imbibe the fresh

And glorious air, that holds the sweets
Of nature's sure and slow eclipse;
That ceaseless round of life and death
Which are the close entwined braid
Of all the seasons' subtle mesh
And endless chain.

And watch the flit

Of idle shadows to and fro,

And brood upon my treasure hid Within my willing flesh.

And when there stirred

A little limb

a tiny hand!— What rapturous thrills of ecstasy Shook all my being to its inmost citadel ! Ah! none but she who has borne

A child beneath her breast may know What wondrous thrill and subtle spell Comes from this wondrous woven band That binds a mother to her unborn child Within her womb.

So would I sit

JULIA NEELY FINCH

DEEP WATERS

DEATH could not come between us two: What fear of death could be,

If thou, its shadow passing through, But turned and looked at me? Nor yet could pain the vision dim With misty blur of tears;

The cup now clouded to the brim, For him who drinketh, clears.

Deep waters could not quench the light,
Tho tender light that lies,
Like splendor of the Northern night,
In thy unquestioning eyes.
Though wide the wild, unfurrowed sea,
Though high the skylark sings,
My love should build a bridge to thee,
My heart should find its wings.

I could not miss thee in the throng,
Nor pass thy dwelling-place,
No noise of war could drown thy song,
Nor darkness veil thy face.
With thee to mount from earth to sky,
With thee in dust to sleep,
What height for love could be too high,
Or depth for love too deep?

AN TASSEL Sutphen

MORITURA

I AM the mown grass, dying at your feet,
The pale grass, gasping faintly in the sun.
I shall be dead, long, long ere day is done,
That you may say:
The air, to-day, was

sweet.' I am the mown grass, dying at your feet.

I am the white syringa, falling now,
When some one shakes the bough.

What matter if I lose my life's brief noon?

You laugh, "A snow in June!"

I am the white syringa, falling now.

Silent cities of the dead

Grow as old as hearts of men; Flowers sanctified, that bloom In the sunshine on a tomb, Have their little day, and then, All their grace and glory fled, They are dead amid the dead.

Ah, God! how miserably lost The loveliest must be; for naught After a little space there lives (Save the poor words the grave-stone gives

To heedless eyes and careless thought) Of pure and blest or passion-tost:

A few brief hours of bloom and frost, And where are those who loved the lost?