AT DINGLE

At Dingle, upon sand and shingle, Softly the ripples curve and creep; Without the white-caps meet and mingle, Without the breakers range and leap.

Here there is calm, here there is quiet, And the sweet sense of long delay; There time and tide by winds that riot Seem from their moorings swept away.

Which will you choose from life, my masters,— Where waves are lulled to dream at ease, Or, in the face of grim disasters, To sail with daring down the seas?