Flotsam

For the tide runs in and the tide runs out, And the women they talk and wait, For hope has a soul that is built of doubt, And our ships are ofttimes late.

And the tide runs up and the tide runs down, And the drift goes floating past; A message it bears to the waiting town In form of a broken mast.

Look! no seaweed yellows its shattered ends! No shell-fish whiten its girth! 'Tis a message, they cry, old Ocean sends To those they have left on earth!

And the tide runs up and the tide runs down, And the sea reclaims its toll; But the hopes that live in that stricken town Are those hopes that have no soul.