LINES — 1875.
Go down where the wavelets are kissing the shore, And ask of them why do they sigh? The poets have asked them a thousand times o'er, But they're kissing the shore as they kissed it before, And they're sighing to-day, and they'll sigh evermore. Ask them what ails them: they will not reply; But they'll sigh on forever and never tell why! Why does your poetry sound like a sigh? The waves will not answer you; neither shall I.
Go stand on the beach of the blue boundless deep, When the night stars are gleaming on high, And hear how the billows are moaning in sleep, On the low lying strand by the surge-beaten steep. They're moaning forever wherever they sweep. Ask them what ails them: they never reply; They moan, and so sadly, but will not tell why! Why does your poetry sound like a sigh? The waves will not answer you; neither shall I.