There are looming rocks by the weird sea-side,
An ominous flapping of wings,
And croak of gulls, as the winds they ride,
Eerie like flitting the tide.
Worn and weary and darkened the life,
And the night as well; a chill
And terrible mental strife
And battle with doubtful will.
Finished—the book lying low and torn
As thrown by a ruthless hand;
A murmur of winds through caverns worn
By the wear of the wide sea sand;
Just this—and the wash of fretted waves.
A moan in the heart none may hear.
There may be something which sometimes saves
The wreck of a life so drear.
An ominous flapping of wings,
And croak of gulls, as the winds they ride,
Eerie like flitting the tide.
Worn and weary and darkened the life,
And the night as well; a chill
And terrible mental strife
And battle with doubtful will.
Finished—the book lying low and torn
As thrown by a ruthless hand;
A murmur of winds through caverns worn
By the wear of the wide sea sand;
Just this—and the wash of fretted waves.
A moan in the heart none may hear.
There may be something which sometimes saves
The wreck of a life so drear.
Chained Down.
What is the prison, the chain or the gyve,
To the fetters that daily bind
The soul and the bodies of those who strive
Through Poverty's curse so unkind?
To the fetters that daily bind
The soul and the bodies of those who strive
Through Poverty's curse so unkind?
—61—
