When the roar of distant shore
Ceases to please this pale frame
The will of Life will have bore
Down, erasing one lettered name.
What is is stripped away to the core
And, at once, is what once came.
As the tide widens its shore
Nothing remains the same.
No niche of beach, no floor
Of sand, no one fine grain
Would deny Nature’s check and chore
On her wild, weak, or tame.
Blown open is her rumored door
Whose inner room, quite plain,
Is full of breath that breathes no more,
That breathes no more with blame.
The tide will rise again at four—
The shore cleared of that unclaimed.
Just out of reach, this Spirit will soar
And soar beyond all pain.
[From the Maine series]