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Excerpt from Seaward, an Elegy on the Death of Thomas William Parsons
Only for love of song he sang, unbid And unexpectant of responsive praise; But they that loved and sought him where he hid, Forbearing to profane his templed ways, Went marveling if that clear voice they heard Pass thrilling through the hushed religious maze, Were of a spirit singing or a bird.
Las! He is not here, he will not Sing; The air is empty of him ever more. Alone I watch the slow kelp gatherers bring Their dories full of sea-moss to the shore. No gentle eyes look out to sea with mine, No gentle lips are uttering quaint lore, No hand is on my shoulder for a sign.
Far, far, so far, the crying of the surf! Still, still, so still, the water in the grass! Here on the knoll the crickets in the turf And one bold squirrel barking, seek, alas! To bring the swarming summer back to me. In vain; my heart is on the salt morass Below, that stretches to the sunlit sea.
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