A mystery entwines all life and death;
the world is but a blend of strife and peace
until the final day is lost, and breath,
and raindrops fall as tears that never cease.
Can love with gentle service last for aye?
O Lord, the years are long and often dark
and love itself must oft expire away
and even memory turn cold, bare, and stark,
like stone that never life has felt or known.
I fear, I fear for winter winds of chills
that crown a dreamless sleep on bitter throne
and moan across the barren, lonely hills.
But somewhere deep inside a music thrums:
I must not fear you, Death, for Easter comes.
The foam explodes on the roaring waves,
the dreams are bursting on the sea of mind;
hear the thunder and the rush,
the dream-waves crashing on rocky shore!
The wind of thought on the deep of the sea
is brooding, seeking to create;
the birds are nesting on the rock,
resting from their soaring.
At times clouds gather in concentrated musing;
at times lightning insight burns into the sea.
The sheet-fire crackles,
the rumble grows loud,
the waves are whipped into gale-silver frenzy.
At times all grows still, pacific and clam,
the jade-green deeps in slow motion rolling.
But always the sea,
the infinite sea,
and the wind on the water,
the foam on the wave.