|
THE days that formed links in this year's closing chain That give way to the new with a sigh, Are casting a beam, where their sun sets at last; And has gladdened a place in the sky That comes down to the sea where the tides never cease; Where the masses as insects are seen; Where the dust is absorbed by the weaker who fall Where the beaks of the vultures are keen. Way out o'er the waves of the restless old sea, Far out from the sight of the land, There are mountains and cliffs the Titanics float o'er; They were framed by a Great Builder's Hand; There are plains, there, plateaus; the hills and the vales-- And there may the finny tribes roam While the roll of the sea is their cradle indeed, In the lullaby song of their home. |