By The Pacific - Poem by Herbert Bashford
FROM this quaint cabin window I can see
The strange, vague line of ghostly drift-wood, though
No ray of silver moon or soft star-glow
Steals through the summer night’s solemnity.
Pale forms drive landward and wild figures flee
Like spectres up the shore; I hear the slow,
Firm tread of marching billows which I know
Will walk beside the years that are to be.
Sweet, gentle sleep is banished from mine eyes;
I lie and think of wrecks until the sobs
And groans of drowning sailors, lost at sea,
Come mingled with the gray gulls’ plaintive cries
And those tumultuous, incessant throbs—
The heavy heart-beats of Eternity.
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