Fires of Driftwood
ON what long tidesDo you drift to my fire,You waifs of strange waters?From what far seas,What murmurous sands,What desolate beaches—Flotsam of those glories that were ships!
I gather you,Bitter with salt,Sun-bleached, rock-scarred, moon-harried,Fuel for my fire.
You are Pride’s end.Through all to-morrows you are yesterday.You are waste,You are ruin,For where is that which once you were?
I gather you.See! I set... more...