Behold the Sea,
The opaline, the plentiful and strong,
Yet beautiful as is the rose in June,
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Behold the Sea,
The opaline, the plentiful and strong,
Yet beautiful as is the rose in June,
Fresh as the trickling rainbow of July;
Sea full of food, the nourisher of kinds,
Purger of earth, and medicine of men;
Creating a sweet climate by my breath,
Washing out harms and griefs from memory,
And, in my mathematic ebb and flow,
Giving a hint of that which changes not.

The burden of the desert of the sea. As whirlwinds in the south
pass through; so it cometh from read more

The burden of the desert of the sea. As whirlwinds in the south
pass through; so it cometh from the desert, from a terrible land.

There is many a rich stone laid up in the bowells of the earth,
many a fair pearle in read more

There is many a rich stone laid up in the bowells of the earth,
many a fair pearle in the bosome of the sea, that never was seene
nor never shall bee.

That make the meadows green; and, poured round all,
Old Ocean's gray and melancholy waste,--
Are but read more

That make the meadows green; and, poured round all,
Old Ocean's gray and melancholy waste,--
Are but the solemn decorations all
Of the great tomb of man.

Once more upon the waters! yet once more!
And the waves bound beneath me as a steed
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Once more upon the waters! yet once more!
And the waves bound beneath me as a steed
That knows his rider.

The sea! the sea! the open sea!
The blue, the fresh, the ever free!
Without a mark, read more

The sea! the sea! the open sea!
The blue, the fresh, the ever free!
Without a mark, without a bound,
It runneth the earth's wide regions round;
It plays with the clouds; it mocks the skies;
Or like a cradled creature lies.

What are the wild waves saying,
Sister, the whole day long,
That ever amid our playing
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What are the wild waves saying,
Sister, the whole day long,
That ever amid our playing
I hear but their low, lone song?

Alone I walked on the ocean strand,
A pearly shell was in my hand;
I stooped, and read more

Alone I walked on the ocean strand,
A pearly shell was in my hand;
I stooped, and wrote upon the sand
My name, the year, the day.
As onward from the sport I passed,
One lingering look behind I cast,
A wave came rolling high and fast,
And washed my lines away.

And I have loved them, Ocean! and my joy
Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be
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And I have loved them, Ocean! and my joy
Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be
Borne, like shy bubbles, onward; from a boy
I wanton'd with thy breakers.
. . . .
And laid my hand upon thy mane--as I do here.