"Rolling, rolling, o'er the deep,
Sunken treasures neath me sleep
As I shoreward slowly sweep.
Onward Peacefully I roll,
Ever thoughtless of the goal,
Sea-bells round be chime and toll.
There is peace above, below,
Far beneath me sea-weeds grow,
Tiny Fish glide to and fro,
Now in sunlight, now in shade,
Lost within some ocean glade
By the restless waters made.
Pushing onward as before,
Now descry the distant shore,
Hear the breakers sullen roar;
Quicken then my rolling pace,
With glad heart I join the race
O'er the white-capp'd glittering space,
Thinking naught of woe or grief,
Dancing, prancing, like a leaf,
Caring not for cliff or reef.
Lo! black cliffs above me loom,
Casting o'er me awful gloom,
And foretell my coming doom.
O1 that I might reach the land,
Reach and lave the sunny sand,
But these rocks on every hand-
Seem my joyous course to stay,
Rise and barmy happy way,
Shutting out the sun's bright ray.
I must now my bround crest lower
And the wild sea roam no more."
Hark! the crash and might roar,
Then the wave's sport life is o'er.
By Robert Frost