On The Maine Coast

The rocks, lean fingers of the land, Reach out into the sea And cool themselves, all day long, In the tide drippingly. They catch the seaweed in them And the starfish on their tips, And gulls that light And the swift flight Of swallows skimming grey and white-- And spars of broken ships.

The moon, God's perfect silver, With which He pays the world For toil and quest and day's unrest, Is washed on them and swirled. And avidly they seize it, Then let it slip away, Only again And yet again To grasp at it--as eager men At joy no hand can stay.